Love Beyond the Sea
by MarieQuiteContrarie
Summary: 2016 T.E.A. WINNER - BEST MOVIE AU. Belle French is a lactose intolerant American, soon-to-be-Canadian, who loathes the French and is terrified to fly. When her fiancé calls from Paris to confess that he's in love with another woman, Belle flies to France to confront him. On the plane, she meets Luc d'Or (Gold), a charming crook who turns her trip—and her life—upside down.
1. Paris Is Always a Good Idea

**2016 T.E.A. WINNER - BEST MOVIE AU.**  
 _Librarian Belle French is a lactose intolerant American, soon-to-be-Canadian, who loathes the French and is terrified to fly. When her fiancé calls from Paris to confess that he's in love with another woman, Belle decides to fly to France to confront him. On the plane, she meets Luc d'Or, a charming crook who turns her trip—and her life—upside down._

This non-magical Rumbelle AU is based on the movie French Kiss, one of my favorite romantic comedies from the 90s. If you're familiar, there will be scenes and lines from the movie, but I'm throwing my own twists in, too. Please comment freely. It is much appreciated. Happy reading!

Disclaimer: I don't own Once Upon A Time or French Kiss or their respective characters.

 **Chapter 1: Paris Is Always a Good Idea  
**

 _Paris is always a good idea." – Audrey Hepburn as Sabrina Fairchild, Sabrina_

Belle French smoothed her hands over the pile of clothes in her partially-filled suitcase and cast a wary glance at her nightstand. Atop four towering stacks of books were the passports and two sets of round-trip plane tickets, mocking her for the bad news she was about to deliver.

How was she going to tell Victor she wasn't going with him to Paris after all?

On the opposite side of the bed, her fiancé was packing his own suitcase. They were supposed to leave for the Toronto Airport in three hours. She couldn't put off the conversation for much longer. Inhaling deeply, she braced herself for his inevitable disappointment and plunged ahead.

"I'm not coming to Paris," Belle blurted.

"What?" Startled, Victor dropped the sport coat he was folding on the bed. "Why not?"

"You know I hate to fly." Her face was hot with embarrassment.

"Yes, of course. But Belle. C'mon, we're talking about _Paris_ ," he said. "City of Lights, City of Love, the most romantic city in the world."

"You can still get the money back from my ticket," Belle pointed out, removing a sweater and a pair of jeans from her bag.

"Money's not the issue," Victor chided. "Please stop unpacking. What I wanted was for you to come with me. How can you not want to go to Paris? You're a historical librarian; shame on you. And, your last name is French!" He laughed at his little joke.

Belle grimaced, unamused. "Like I've never heard that one before. Victor, the _French_. Not my name; the people. They hate us, they smoke, they have a whole relationship to dairy products which I don't understand," Belle ticked off each offense on her shell-pink fingernails. "Besides, _Doctor Whale,_ it's a medical convention. You'll be so busy comparing scalpel size with other doctors at Medicare meetings and suture demonstrations you won't even notice my absence."

"What about the Eiffel Tower?" Victor teased.

That was a low blow. Victor knew Belle's fond desire to see the famed monument was her major weakness where Paris was concerned.

"The Eiffel Tower," Belle sighed. "You know I'd love to see the Eiffel Tower."

"Then it's settled. Great!" Victor picked up Belle's discarded clothing and plopped the items back in her suitcase. He headed toward the en suite bathroom to collect his razor and toothbrush.

"It's not really the flying thing or the French thing," Belle confessed, hot on his heels. "I'm still here on a work visa. I'm not supposed to leave the country until my Canadian citizenship comes through."

"Babe, now you're just being paranoid." Victor poked his head through the bathroom door, then pulled his toiletry bag out of the linen closet. "No one's going to find out."

"Victor, it's the law. What happens when they question me at Immigration?"

"We'll make something up," he offered, blue eyes twinkling. "We'll tell them your cousin Bridgette fell in the Seine."

"Ha! They'll find out I don't have a cousin Bridgette and they'll deport me back to Maine," she declared glumly. "I wonder if the Storybrooke Library is hiring."

"Belle, come to Paris with me," he said. "I'll give you 10 milligrams of Valium, a shot of Stoli, and we'll be there before you know it. You can sing and dance on the plane and I won't repeat any of the ridiculous things you say and do."

Torn between pleasing Victor and her fear, she shook her head. Thankfully, a brief, insistent knock on the apartment door saved her from having to explain herself again.

"Everybody decent?" a female voice called playfully.

Victor rolled his eyes. "Is that Ariel? Seriously? I don't want to see my family tonight."

"She lives right across the hall and she and I share an apartment," Belle pointed out, pulling her curly russet hair into a ponytail. "Anyway, you never want to see your family."

"That's true," he said. "Have you noticed since we're engaged they barely even knock anymore? They just let themselves in whenever they feel like it!"

"Be grateful they care about you, Victor." Belle blinked back the sudden tears that sprang to her eyes. "My father's never once come to visit me in the five years since I moved to Toronto. He's still angry I wasn't content to stay in Storybrooke to help him run the flower shop for the rest of my life."

"Maine's not so bad," he quipped. "There are tall trees. And bears."

Belle gave him a wounded look. Perhaps it was the independent streak borne of working long hours at the hospital, but Victor never seemed to take her desire for a loving family or her father's lack of acceptance seriously.

"I'm sorry, Hon." Shrugging, he ushered her toward the kitchen to greet Ariel, Victor's sister and Belle's best friend.

"You're forgiven," she murmured, frowning. Seeing the smiling face of her dearest friend cheered her up considerably.

"Hello, lovebirds!" Ariel looked up from the wine she was pouring. She winked at Victor and gave Belle an affectionate hug. "Glad I caught you before you left. You forgot your makeup case at our place," Ariel said, producing a sleek black bag. "And," she drawled, holding out a scented pink sheet of paper, "here's the stuff I want from Paris. Don't forget the latest and greatest in Parisian lingerie—Eric's whisking me to Quebec City for the weekend in three weeks. I haven't seen him in months. Long distance relationships are not for the faint of heart."

Victor snatched the message out of her hand, scanning his sister's lengthy list of requests. "I'll see what I can do. Belle's not going to Paris."

"Vraiment?" Ariel arched a brow. "Really? Is it the French thing?"

"No, it's the uh, flying thing," Victor replied.

"Uh, since you're going sans Belle, you can forget the lingerie store. I don't think I can wear something my older brother chose for me—some things are just too gross to contemplate." Ariel shot Belle a crestfallen look.

"Well, thank you so much for relieving me of my shopping duties, Princess Ariel," Victor bowed. "Would you get me a glass of wine _from my own kitchen_ or is it strictly self-service?"

Ariel stuck out her tongue and poured him a generous glass of ruby red Cabernet.

"It's not the French thing and it's not the flying thing," Belle said, annoyed that they were discussing her and had already moved on to bickering as through she weren't in the room. "I'm not supposed to leave Canada until my Immigration interview."

"Well, it's a bummer that you're not going to experience Paris, Belle," Ariel sympathized, opening the refrigerator to look for a snack. "Are you sure marrying this guy is worth all this Immigration mumbo jumbo?" She elbowed Victor in the ribs. He groaned and Belle chuckled at his pained expression.

"Marriage, a home, and a family with a handsome, talented doctor?" Belle slipped her arms around Victor's neck and brushed her lips against his. "It's everything I ever wanted."

He gave an automatic smile and disengaged himself from her embrace. "Let's not give my sister a show, Belle."

"Hmmmph, that's never stopped you before, Victor," another female voice announced matter-of-factly. Victor and Ariel's grandmother appeared in the kitchen doorway.

"Granny!" Belle launched herself at the older woman and kissed her plump, wizened cheek. "It's so good to see you!"

Victor raised an eyebrow, feigning surprise at his grandmother's intrusion. "Belle, did you hear a knock at the door?"

Granny ignored him. "Even though he's a naughty scamp, I brought you and that _horrid_ _boy I raised from birth_ sandwiches from my diner. Can't have my babies eating airport food. Besides, it's likely the last wholesome, Canadian fare you'll eat for a while. Those French smother everything in sauce to cover up the horse meat. " She shuddered in horror. "No cheese for you Belle," she said, holding out the takeout bag.

Grateful, Belle smiled.

"It's only a week in Paris, Granny," Victor reminded her. "And it's just me going. Belle's staying behind."

"Is it the flying thing?" Granny peered sharply at Belle over her spectacles.

"No, it's the French thing," Victor responded.

Belle ground her teeth. "It's not the French thing and it's not the flying thing…"

"…she's not supposed to leave the country till her Canadian citizenship comes through," Ariel finished, eyeing Granny's bag of food and sniffing appreciatively.

" Yes, yes, there's dinner for you as well," the old woman told Ariel. She turned her attention to Belle. "You know, they grew up, they moved out, and I'm still feeding and caring for these two," she said gruffly, pretending to be offended. "Belle, you're a very sensible, intelligent, lovely young woman with a good head on her shoulders. I love you like you're my own daughter, and I wouldn't want you to break the law just to see some hoity-toity Can-Can dancers and eat a plate of garden slugs drowning in garlic butter."

"That's because you're just so wonderful, Granny," Belle flushed, the joy of being loved by the only mother she had ever known causing her heart to swell. Victor's family meant everything to her. "Ariel and Victor know how lucky they are. So do I."

"Lucky indeed. That reminds me—I can't believe I almost forgot," Granny trilled, slapping her hands on the countertop. "Will and Anastasia Scarlet put their house on the market! You know, the one you two have been eyeing for the past year. It's fate, I think—your wedding's coming up and they're finally ready to sell."

xoxoxo

"Why are we looking at a house we can't afford?" Victor asked, as they sat in their car outside the Scarlets' sprawling farmhouse. He raked a hand through his short, wavy blonde hair and glanced at his watch. Belle had been so excited at the prospect of seeing the old Scarlet place that when she begged him to stop on their way to the airport, he had agreed.

Belle peeked in the large bay window, a mission made easier by the darkness outside and the lights illuminating the spacious rooms inside. "It's more than a house, Victor, it's a home. The Scarlets were happy here for many years. They built a life, raised a family. Now it's our turn to make a home of our own."

"Hon, I know everyone thinks doctors are loaded, but I'm going to be paying medical school debts for a long time. It's a great house, but I'm just not sure we can swing it financially," he admitted. Not only were homes expensive, they tied you down. He imagined coming home after 24-hour shifts at the hospital, only to be treated to a list of cleaning, yard work, and repairs.

"I'm glad you brought that up. That's actually what I wanted to talk to you about," Belle said.

"Huh?"

"Since I turned 21, I've been putting money aside every week of my adult life which I then rolled into a high-yield term deposit with interest rates close to 20 percent," she said.

"What? What are you talking about?" He wrinkled his brow in confusion.

"I've made us a nest egg."

"How many eggs?" She'd been saving money and he hadn't known?

"Quite a few, actually—$65,236 eggs. So with a little help from Granny, we can probably afford it. Isn't that great news?"

"Why didn't you tell me this before?" he croaked.

She inclined her head, smiling coquettishly. "I wanted it to be a surprise."

"It's a surprise. It's a big surprise," he said, looking back at the Scarlet place. Staring at the picket fence framing the edges of the property, he suddenly imagined those gleaming white slabs of wood closing in around him. Breathless and warm, Victor tugged at his collar.

"Victor." There was a question in Belle's voice and he swallowed audibly.

"Yeah." He couldn't look at Belle just yet. Was she keeping more secrets? What else didn't he know about her?

"Talk to me," Belle urged.

But his gaze was fixated on the elderly couple inside the house marked For Sale; they dozed companionably on the couch while the television flickered in the corner. "My whole life is flashing before my eyes and we don't even have children yet."

Belle took his chin in her hand, stroking the strong line of his jaw. "I love you."

The words jolted him back to the present and he smiled. "I know," he said, and pressed his forehead against hers. Pulling back slightly, he regarded her, his eyes serious. "Come to Paris with me."

"I'm sorry, Victor." Belle's cerulean eyes were moist with regret. "I just can't."

###

 _Up Next: While Victor is in Paris, Belle hopes to make an offer on their dream home. But a shocking phone call threatens to derail Belle's carefully planned life._


	2. Freefall

_"Paris is the city of love, even for the birds." – Samantha Schutz_

Belle wiped her slick palms on her jeans and gripped the arm rails of her seat. Twisting her head, she was greeted by the dizzying sight of the monstrous airplane chewing up the pavement as it sped down the runway. Bad idea. Releasing her white-knuckled grip, she covered her eyes with one hand and used the other to slide the shade shut. If she was going to hurtle into oblivion, she didn't want to watch it happen.

"We're going down; we're going down; we're going down," she chanted as the plane gained momentum. "No," she corrected herself, nostrils flaring as she forced deep breaths. "Do the brave thing; do the brave thing; do the brave thing."

"Miss French," a pleasant female voice interrupted, "are you prepared to have a pleasant flight?"

In-flight service. She sighed. Must they be so _friendly_? So _accommodating_? Didn't they know this plane was doomed to plunge into the sea? Idiots.

Eyelids still lowered, Belle held up a hand to halt any forthcoming pleasantries. "Don't be plying me with peanuts, pretzels, and Pepsi, ok? Cut to the chase. What's wrong with the plane? It's the oxygen masks, isn't it? You don't have enough for every passenger." Glad to have someone to focus her ire on, she opened her eyes to fix the flight attendant with an accusing stare. But her angry aqua gaze met nothing but an empty aisle.

Startled, Belle's eyes searched the cabin. Every last seat was empty. Where _was_ everyone? She tried to stand, but the pressure of the seatbelt kept her bottom securely fastened.

"Please remain in your seat. All is in order," the disembodied voice purred. "Tell me, Miss French, what are you thinking about?"

Belle screwed her eyes shut again and shook her head as beads of sweat formed on her upper lip. "Twisted steel. A ball of fire. A naked baby screaming for its mother," she whined.

"Miss French," the voice snapped, "what happened to your countryside chateau? Picture it now."

"All right," Belle conceded with a wary sigh. "My chateau. It's a beautiful, old stone castle. Covered in ivy and resplendent with towers and turrets." Belle began to smile as she spoke, imagining herself as a princess in this fantasy, perhaps the daughter of a wealthy merchant king.

"Very good, Miss French," the voice praised. "What else do you see?"

"The walls are decorated with rich, colorful tapestries," Belle continued, losing herself in the imagery. "And inside the tallest tower there's a man with shoulder-length hair, standing at a spinning wheel…" Her eyes flew open in surprise. Where had _that_ come from?

"Miss French," the voice persisted, trying to recapture Belle's attention. "Now would be a good time for you to recite your takeoff mantra."

"Mantra? What mantra?" Belle questioned the disembodied voice. "I don't take orders from ghosts or transient beings or whatever you are. Show yourself." As the plane picked up speed, Belle's nervousness likewise accelerated. Yanking the seatbelt around her hips, she once more looked around the vacant aircraft for the mysterious Airplane Nazi.

"Come now, Miss French." Was it Belle's imagination, or was the voice was beginning to sound annoyed? "Sing along with me. I love Paris in the springtime; I love Paris in the fall…" the voice warbled the old Cole Porter song.

Reluctant but obedient, Belle continued the melody: "I love Paris in the summer when it sizzles; I love Paris in the winter when it drizzles…"

Feeling a jolt as the landing gear retracted, Belle jerked and pressed her hand against the wall of the airplane. "Yow! What was that?!"

Belle's whole body trembled as she tried to unfasten the seatbelt. "You know what, I think you gave me the wrong mantra."

"Oh?" The voice sounded bored.

"Yeah. I don't love Paris, I don't like the French, and I don't really want to go on this trip!" Belle's words were as shrill as the airplane's engines.

"Calm down, please, Miss French. Statistically speaking, this is still the safest way to travel," the floating voice reasoned.

"Don't quote _Superman_ lines to me!" Belle snapped, still wrestling with the seatbelt. Was this thing made of iron? "This is all wrong! I'm not supposed to be here! I don't belong on an _airplane_." At last! Freed from the restricting strap, Belle lurched to her feet, charging for the exit.

"What do you think you're doing?" The voice did not sound pleased.

"Get me out of here!" Belle shouted, banging on the aircraft door. "I don't want to die!"

"Miss French, really." The voice materialized into a tiny brunette wearing sparkling wings and an ice blue gown with a very odd, very oblong hoopskirt. She waved a wand in Belle's face and wrinkled her nose in distaste. "I never took you for the cowardly type."

"Now you decide to show up!" Belle pressed her fingers to her throbbing temples, certain she must be seeing things. "What are you, anyway?"

"I'm the Blue Fairy, of course," the shiny tiny person was imperious. "You wished upon a star, so here I am."

"How delightful," Belle said, hitting the door once more for good measure. "Now why don't you get me the hell off this death trap!"

The little fairy snorted. "Well, that's not really my department, now is it?" As if Belle should somehow comprehend the delineation of fairy duties.

"I suppose I could call one of my assistants," she allowed, as though she was doing Belle some great favor. With a poof, she produced a tiny bell that she began to ring. "Nova, Nova, Nova!" She yelled. "By my wings… _Nova_!"

Bolting up in bed, Belle sent the thick volume of Shakespeare she'd fallen asleep reading careening to the floor. She pressed her hand against her pounding heart, willing herself to calm.

Airplane? Floating voice? Tiny fairy? It had all been a dream. No, a nightmare. But the bizarre fairy's little bell was still ringing. Ringing, ringing, ringing. Dewey H. Decimal, she was going mad!

Wait, that wasn't the fairy's bell. It was her phone. She grabbed it, checking the caller. Victor. He was calling from Paris in the middle of the night to account for the seven-hour difference.

"Honey, hello!" she answered, shaking off the vestiges of her strange dream. "How's it going?"

"Bon soir, Mademoiselle," Victor said, imitating a French accent.

She giggled. "How's it going?"

"Great! It's just one conference after another but this city, it's like magic, Belle. It just…casts a spell," he said.

"How was dinner?"

"Mmmmm," he moaned. "They used this sauce. It was a taste I've never experienced. C'est incroyable."

"Victor, remember what Granny said: the sauces have to be incroyable to cover up the horse meat. It's true. I saw the segment on 60 Minutes."

"Belle, if you keep watching those shows, you're never gonna leave the house. Anyway, I've gotta go. I'm with some of the other guys at this very hip club and I can't hear too well."

"Ok, but I really need to talk to you about the house," Belle said.

"Tomorrow, I promise. I've got to go. I love you. Bye."

* * *

"And then you woke up?" Ariel prompted as she delicately twirled a forkful of linguine fra diavolo.

"Yes." Belle toyed with her own platter of fettucine alfredo after relaying the details of the nightmare to her dearest friend. "It was the weirdest thing. But then I talked to Victor and I felt a little better."

They were indulging in their monthly girls' night at the little Italian restaurant around the corner from their apartment building. Just Pasta was their favorite hangout to gorge on carbs, fruity alcoholic concoctions, and sinful desserts. This evening was no exception. After last night's terribly realistic dream, Belle was going to need an extra-large serving of Chocolate Explosion—the trattoria's famed dessert of moist, rich brownies, silky, dark chocolate mousse, and Italian crème.

"What do you think it all means?" Ariel asked, then took a sip of her Cosmopolitan.

"No doubt it's my subconscious torturing me for not accompanying Victor to Paris," Belle said. "Ariel, I swear, it's not the flying thing. I'm not supposed…"

"To leave the country until your Canadian citizenship comes through," Ariel finished. "Right."

Belle glared at the smirk on her bestie's pretty face and protested, "It's true!"

"I know, Belles, I know." Ariel patted her hand sympathetically.

"Are you patronizing me?"

"Me? Never," Ariel said. "But Belles, I'm not the one who brought up the flying thing—you are."

"Mmmm, this is heavenly." Belle shoveled a massive spoonful of dessert into her mouth.

"Ok, so you hate to fly," Ariel said, bringing a dollop of chocolate mousse to her own lips with her forefinger. "So what? You may never be a world traveler, but you have lots of other incredible qualities. You're gorgeous, intelligent, well-read, graceful, practical, and fashionable. Did I mention well-read? You have the biggest heart of anyone I've ever met. My brother's a moron, but he has excellent taste in women."

"Thanks, sweetie." Belle acknowledged the compliment, grateful to Ariel for letting the matter of her aviatophobia drop. "Oh! All this talk of fairies and airplanes almost made me forget the most important news! This morning I talked to the realtor about the Scarlets' farmhouse, and we're ready to make an offer—just as soon as I talk to Victor."

"You guys are crazy," Ariel said. "Sorry, I didn't mean to blurt that out. I'll support you in whatever you want to do but I'm never going to buy a house or anything else worth anything."

"Why not?" Belle furrowed her brow.

"Because you think you own something, when really it ends up owning you," Ariel said. "It becomes your entire life, then one night someone forgets to put out their cigarette and it all burns to the ground."

"And everyone thinks I'm the paranoid one. Anyway, I don't smoke," Belle said cheerfully. "And neither does Victor."

"Like I said—it's your decision. I'm behind you 100 percent—on everything from the hideous bridesmaid dresses to the horrible housewarming gifts," Ariel said. "Don't let my fatalistic attitude rub off on you."

Grinning, Belle tossed a chunk of crusty bread at Ariel.

Ariel ducked as the bread sailed over her head. "Hey! What was that for?"

"My bridesmaid dresses will NOT be hideous," Belle said with mock severity, reaching into her handbag to retrieve her ringing cell phone.

Ariel rolled her eyes. "Is that Victor again? Geez, does he need to call _every_ day? Doesn't he know it's girls' night?"

"Shush!" Belle waved at Ariel to be quiet as she answered the call. Finally, she was going to get to talk to Victor about the house.

"Honey, hi! I'm so glad it's you. I really need to talk to you about the house."

But her greeting didn't seem to register. "Belle! Belle! Are you there?"

He was drunk, Belle realized. Drunk and absolutely wrecked. The clamor of music and voices from a bar was audible in the background along with the static of the long-distance connection, and Belle sank her teeth into her lower lip. Victor became emotional when he had too much to drink, and Belle sent up a silent plea that he was lucid enough to give her a decision about the house.

Mustering all her patience, Belle tried to hide her disappointment. "Yes, it's me, Victor. What's wrong? Are you all right?"

"Belle! No. Yes. Something—something's happened."

"What happened? Victor, what's wrong?"

"Oh, Belle. I'm just so happy. You know, I'm just so happy." He was rambling.

"Victor, I'm happy too," Belle said, brightening. Maybe she would be able to steer the conversation back to the house after all.

"Don't say that," he said. "That—that just makes what I'm trying to say even harder."

"What? Victor, what are you talking about? You're scaring me."

"I screwed up. I screwed up, definitely. But it's destiny, Belle, that's what it is…" His explanation trailed off and Belle felt her carb-fest churning in her stomach.

"What are you saying? What's destiny?"

"It is not in the stars to hold our destiny but in ourselves," he replied.

"Are you quoting Shakespeare?" she asked. "Now I know something's wrong. Victor, what the hell is going on?"

"Well, I met this woman. This apparition. This _goddesse._ "

" _Goddesse_?"

"Yeah. It's French for goddess. And so is she, Belle, she's French."

"You met a woman whose last name is French, like mine? I don't understand."

"No, I met a woman who _is_ French. Belle, I've never, ever felt this way. I could do anything. I could rule the world, climb the highest mountain. I could walk into a men's room and pee, even with some guy, you know, waiting in line behind me."

"What? What! What?!" Victor's words were beginning to sink in. "Hold on. You're leaving me?"

"Belle, I'm not coming back. I'm in love. Love, like in a sonnet. Or in a movie. Or a fairy tale. Love, like…love."

"But what about our house? What about our wedding? What about our…our life?" She stammered, her composure destroyed. Tears ran like molten lava down her scalding cheeks. The image of a very concerned Ariel swam in front of her wet eyes.

"I'm sorry, Belle. I'm so sorry," Victor said.

"Victor? Wait! Victor!" Belle cried. But the call was over; the line was dead. And Victor was gone.

Confusion, hurt, and fury warred within Belle's breast and she did what any reasonable woman who had just been jilted by her fiancé from 6,000 kilometers away would do. Shouting like a Valkyrie going into battle, she picked up her highball glass and hurled it at the restaurant wall.

Ignoring the stares of rubbernecking restaurant patrons, Ariel looked from Belle's tortured face to the wall, now dripping with rivulets of crimson liquid and shards of glass. "I take it the wedding's off?" she asked, coming around the table to pull Belle into her arms.

"Oh, Ariel," Belle sobbed, clinging to her friend like a lifeline. "He's not coming home."

###

 _Up Next: Operation Win Back Victor. Belle finds the courage to get on a plane to Paris to convince her wayward fiancé of where he truly belongs._


	3. First in Flight

_"There are only two emotions in a plane: boredom and terror." – Orson Wells_

Belle had never been on a flight before, but she was fairly certain that bees did not belong in the cabin of an aircraft.

Blessedly distracted by a commotion, she looked on as a small, indignant, bespectacled man argued with the flight attendant that he could not simple check his precious honeybees into the cargo bay. No, he preferred to carry them onto the plane. Bee Guy was told he could either surrender his winged companions or be escorted off the flight. He gave up the bee-filled case with an angry glare and stomped to his aisle seat in Belle's row.

She sighed in disappointment as Bee Guy settled down and the issue came to an abrupt close. Now that the drama was over, where would she focus to stop her racing thoughts? Looking out the window, she tried to self-soothe by counting the suitcases the baggage handlers hefted onto the conveyor belt. Bolstered by the calming activity, she reminded herself what she was doing on an international flight to Paris in the first place: she was going to win Victor back.

Under her breath, Belle began to sing. "One - We were meant to be; Two - It's what you said to me; Three - Now we've lost our way; Got to work to make love stay..."

Her "fight" song was interrupted by the arrival of a leather-clad man with brown hair to his shoulders easing into the middle seat. Belle rolled her eyes heavenward. Bee Guy on the aisle and Leather Guy in the center? She had really been hoping that the middle seat would remain empty so she would have more space, but no such luck. It was a full flight.

Belle slammed the window shade shut and dragged her fingernails over her arms, puckering her flesh into ugly, reddish scratches.

Leather Guy looked at the marks on her forearms and twisted his mouth into an unreadable expression. Already on edge, Belle went immediately on the offensive.

"You think this is funny?" Her voice was shrill and loud in the quietly humming aircraft. "You think someone's fear is funny? This is my first time on a plane," she said, holding her index finger in front of her pale face. "First. Time."

"What do you think, the plane is going to crash and we are all on the ground in a thousand pieces, dead? I promise you if it happens, you won't feel a thing." His accented voice was even, melodic and very, very French.

Belle stared at him, her blue eyes widening in horror. "You're French, aren't you?"

"Luc d'Or," he said, extending his hand with a smirk. "That's French for Gold."

"Oh my God, you _are_ French!" she said. Ignoring his proffered hand, she wrapped her arms around herself and began to rock slowly to and fro. "I'm on a plane to France. Sitting next to a French guy. This isn't happening. Ok, Belle, breathe. Breathe."

"Oui, sitting next to a Frenchman on an airplane to Paris," he said. "Imagine that. Though I am curious, how did you get around your whole life? Or are you some kind of hermit that just stays in your house with all the doors locked?"

Her startled gaze locked with his whiskey brown eyes—sharp, intelligent, and haughty in his angular face. He wasn't conventionally handsome, no, but there was something arresting about him. Surveying the attractive laugh lines bracketing his mouth, she guessed him to be in his late forties.

As she tried to find a flaw in his features, he eyed her expectantly, awaiting an answer to his question. Caught staring, Belle flushed and snapped back. "I get around as nature intended—in a car!"

Over the intercom, a woman delivered information in rapid, cultured French. The voice sounded suspiciously like that Blue Fairy person from Belle's nightmare two evenings ago, which only heightened her anxiety.

"What did she say?" Belle demanded of Luc. "That sounded serious!"

"Oui, the pilot says there is a crack in the engine but it's no matter, he take off anyway," he said.

Before Belle could react to this alarming news, the message was repeated in English: "Please remember that the use of mobile phones and other electronic devices is strictly forbidden during takeoff."

Belle glared at her travel companion. "I don't know what they teach you in France, but rude and interesting are not the same thing!"

He merely chuckled, then leaned across her to slide open the window shade. Belle clenched her arms against her sides as the smell of arrogance and money invading her personal space.

The televisions blinked to life with a subtitled emergency procedures video and around the cabin several flight attendants were demonstrating the use of the oxygen masks and pointing toward the exits. Torn between watching the video and the rapid motions of the airplane staff, Belle whined, then raised her hand, frantic with questions. All too soon the demonstration finished, and the pilot was addressing the passengers.

"Folks, this is your pilot speaking. Welcome to Air Canada, nonstop service from Toronto to Paris. My name is Captain James Cogsworth. Our flying time today is an estimated 7 hours and 15 minutes. We're third in line for takeoff and should be in the air in just a few minutes. Have a pleasant flight."

"Ok, ok, ok." Belle whimpered, smoothing her shaking hands over her hair.

* * *

Luc had been observing her with casual interest, but her dramatics were beginning to annoy him. He had heard of aerophobia, but watching this young woman panic on an airplane was unnerving even _him_. As she closed her eyes and her head lolled back against the seat, he scowled, his gaze heavy on her sweat-sheened face.

"Look," she said, not opening her eyes. "I've almost got the stone castle going, so could you please just stop staring at me?"

"It is incredible," he said.

"What is?"

"Every muscle in your body is tense. Even the lids of your eyes. Your nostrils are closing up. How do you do that?" he asked.

Taking out her phone to send an SOS text to Ariel, Belle turned her head toward the window, willing this bizarre man to stop staring, stop talking, stop the damn plane!

"Come pick me up," she typed to Ariel. "There's a crazy French guy on the plane badgering me." She tapped the screen, impatient for her best friend's response. "Undeliverable," the message read. Great. Cell service was out already? Even Belle's phone was mocking her.

Despite her valiant attempts to ignore him he persisted. "Me? I love to fly. Especially this moment. The plane getting ready to charge the runway. The engines screaming. The pressure building. The force of it slams you back in the seat," he said. "Then _whoosh_ , you are in the air. Everything else is behind you.

"There is only one other place in life where I feel this kind of exhilaration." He waggled his dark eyebrows.

"Where's that?" She relented, finally giving up on ignoring him.

"It is…"

"Never mind," she said, holding up a hand to quiet him. "Don't tell me, just let me guess."

Captain Cogsworth chimed in again over the intercom: "Flight attendants, please prepare for takeoff."

"Oh God, I don't think I can do this." Belle began to pray, then moved to unbuckle her seatbelt. "I think it's time for me to leave."

Feeling sorry for her but not wanting her to realize it, Luc laid his arm protectively across her lap to keep her from rising. "We're about to take off, cherie," he warned. "Move now and you might get sucked out of the airplane."

She pinched his arm through the leather of his jacket and tossed the offending limb back in his own lap.

He gave her another contemptuous smile. Yes, he knew exactly how much he flustered her and was enjoying her discomfiture immensely. "Have you ever considered that maybe it is not the airplane?"

"What's not the airplane?"

"Maybe it is something else you fear?" he suggested.

"What do you mean?"

"Do I have to say it?" he asked.

"Will I be able to stop you?"

"Because it is obvious to me it is not the plane you fear."

"Obvious to you. Obvious to _you._ I'm sorry, are you a psychiatrist?"

"Psychiatrists. Bah," he said, waving his hand with a dismissive flourish. "I don't need an ugly couch and a wood-paneled office to see what is right in front of my face, cherie. I know your type."

"Oh, really?" she drawled. "And what type is that?"

"You are afraid to live."

"Excusez-moi? What?"

"Oui, you are afraid of life, you are afraid of intimacy, you are afraid of love."

"Well, that is ridiculous," she scoffed.

"Ridicule? Non. I can tell from looking at your face, the way you dress, with your petite white shirt and cardigan sweater, your bag full of books." When he reached for her knapsack, overflowing with romantic novels, travel guides, and self-help books, he was rewarded with a smack on the hand.

* * *

Absorbed in the argument, Belle didn't even notice that the plane was now airborne. She was tired of being insulted by this infuriating stranger. Her fiancé had ditched her for another woman and she was in no mood for games and petty fights. She rounded on him. "Now you have a problem with reading? Don't they have libraries and bookstores in France? Or do people just sit in cafés smoking, drinking coffee, and stuffing their faces with cheese?"

"Ah, but you are obsessed with reading, non? You're the type of woman who wanders around with your nose stuck in a book, dreaming of life rather than living it!"

"What is the matter with you?"

"I know this type…"

"You don't know me! You don't know anything about me! And Victor never complained," Belle said, her voice rising with every word.

"You are afraid."

"I am not afraid! And for you to sit there with that smug expression on your face and tell me that I have a problem with _my_ life and _my_ Victor is insane!"

"Oui, cherie, you are very excitable," he murmured over her yelling. His amused countenance pissed her off even more.

"Because look at you, you're just some ignorant, nicotine-saturated and—I'm sorry to say—hygiene deficient, Frenchman!"

He snorted, and she saw that he was trying to conceal his laughter. "Mmmm, yes, je suis desolé. I'm sorry I brought it up," he said, holding his hand over his heart.

As she opened her mouth to retaliate, he directed her attention out the window with a low whistle. "Look. What a fantastic view."

They were soaring high above the cloud line, and Belle caught her breath. She was flying! The setting sun reflected off the expansive sea of whipped cream clouds, kissing the sky with glorious streaks of orange, mauve, and yellow. She was so high she had to look down to see the horizon. A surge of triumph rose in her breast. In that moment Belle French had never felt more powerful.

"Better now?" Luc asked, a bit more gently.

Unable to tear her gaze away from the splendor of the skies, she simply nodded.

"Excellent," he said. "You know, you haven't told me your name."

"That's because you didn't ask," Belle said primly.

"Oui, but I'm asking now. Or perhaps you don't want to share?" he teased. "Names have power."

Did the man mock everything? She sighed. "I'm Belle."

"Belle," he repeated, testing the name on his lips. "And your surname, Belle?"

"French."

"French?" Vraiment?" He was laughing at her again. "Your surname is French and you hate French people. Don't you think that is a bit, how do you say it in English…ironic?"

"I don't _hate_ French people," she said, defensive. "Besides, soon my surname will be Whale." She held out the small diamond Victor had given her for inspection.

He gave the ring a dismissive glance. "Belle Whale. How…flattering."

What was wrong with her engagement ring? Insufferable bastard, Belle fumed. "You are so arrogant…"

"I did not say anything!"

But their bickering was interrupted by another announcement from Captain Cogsworth. "Ladies and gentlemen, we hope you are enjoying a pleasant flight. We invite you to relax, sit back, as our flight attendants proudly present…your dinner."

"Excuse moi, Belle," he said, rising from his seat. "I must find the washroom before dinner."

Belle closed her eyes. Pompous jerk. She wasn't going to look at him for the rest of the flight. Ok, maybe just to sneak a couple more looks at his backside. She groaned. Luc d'Or was impossible. It was going to be a _very_ long flight.

###

 _Up Next: Luc and Belle clash on the flight, Belle gets a little bit tipsy, and we find out that Luc has a big fat secret._


	4. Crash Landing

_"I love Paris in the summer, when it sizzles." – Cole Porter_

Luc loved the wee hours of an overnight flight. A pleasant hush permeated the cabin, offering him the luxury to think and ponder. The majority of the passengers slumbered for a few hours in preparation for their early morning arrival in Paris. He allowed his own eyes to drift shut, giving the illusion of rest while his mind whirred with activity.

As he made plans, discarded them, then made more, his thoughts wandered to his petite travel companion, Belle French. He nearly smiled, recalling the way her eyes had flashed and her cheeks had flushed during their confrontation. Mademoiselle did not like to be wrong about anything, that much was certain.

Stealing a glance at her now, he took advantage of the opportunity to observe her surreptitiously. She was the only person within eyeshot who was awake other than himself. Huddled in her deep blue cardigan sweater, her nose was buried in a fat tome, a fancy book light clipped to the cover to illuminate the pages. Despite himself, Luc admired her profile—her delicate yet strong chin, her pert nose, her russet mane of thick curls swept back from her elegant cheekbones, the way her downcast eyelashes cast semicircular shadows on her creamy skin…damn it. Luc shifted uncomfortably in his seat. A forbidden attraction was all he needed.

She hadn't turned a page in five minutes, the realization creating a small flutter of nervousness in his chest. Was she aware he was watching her? She moved a little and he snapped his face forward, feigning sleep once more.

Bumping him with her elbow, Belle startled Luc out his pretending.

"I'm sorry," she apologized. "Did I disturb you? I can be rather clumsy." She turned toward him slightly. "I was just…trying to turn the page."

"It's all right," he said, closing his eyes once more and half wondering if she had nudged him on purpose.

"Since you're awake anyway, I was wondering…that is….may I ask you something?"

Ha! He knew it. She _had_ done it purposely. He threw her a feral smile. This slip of a girl was no match for Luc d'Or. "Oui?"

"It's Luke, isn't it?"

"Luc," he corrected.

She tried again, molding her pretty lips around his name. "Luke."

"No, not Luke. Luc." Leaning close, he pointed to her book and suggested in a low, seductive voice, "Look up the pronunciation in one of your little stories."

Judging from her crestfallen expression, he'd succeeded in unsettling her. "You wish to ask me something, or no?"

"Forget it." She tossed her head and returned to reading.

"I forget already," he drawled, exaggerating his accent. May as well drive the point home now. Besides, he was growing impatient with her for hedging and wasting his time and looking so…damn it.

A moment of awkward silence passed between them.

"This is the thing," she rallied suddenly. "Did you mean all those things you said before, or were you just trying to make me angry? Do I look like the kind of person who doesn't know how to have a good time?"

Their crew stewardess stopped beside them with the beverage cart, putting the conversation on hold. "How about a nice spot of tea?" she offered, her wide smile making her pleasantly plump cheeks glow with welcome.

Belle nodded enthusiastically. "That would be lovely."

"Whiskey." Luc ordered brusquely.

"Tsk, tsk, tsk," said the stewardess. "Mr. Potts—he's my husband—always says tea is just the thing for an overseas flight. Cabin air is very dry and you need to hydrate."

"Two whiskeys, s'il vous plaît," he said, pulling a crisp bill from his wallet. Why did the crew insist on bossing the customers around? Don't smoke, don't drink, don't get up when their stupid little lights were on. Wasn't the price of airfare high enough without being forced to endure their well-meaning opinions?

"I agree completely," Belle said pleasantly.

 _Of course she does_ , he fumed. She was a rule-follower if he'd ever met one.

As Belle stirred her hot beverage, Luc emptied two of the bottles into two glasses, passing one to Belle. "Here, try this while your tea cools."

"Thank you," she said, accepting the drink.

"Santé." He clinked his glass against hers. "Now, you were going to tell me about your book."

"Oh! It's the most wonderful story," she chirped, taking a tiny sip of the heady spirits. "The heroine just met—wait. Wait. I see what you did just there." She wagged a finger at him. "Do not change the subject."

Apparently she was smarter than he'd given her credit for.

"I will answer your question, if you answer one for me," he said.

"You mean like a deal?" She eyed him skeptically.

"Oui, a deal. Bonne ideé. Good idea." He praised her, all but rubbing his hands together in anticipation.

"Fine then," She tipped her head back, draining her glass.

"Why are you headed to Paris?" he asked, pouring her more whiskey.

"To save my fiancé," she said, her voice filled with passion and purpose. She accepted the refill with a nod of thanks.

"Is he in prison? Or the hospital?" Generally Luc was a man who kept to himself and didn't get involved with other people. Life was far less complicated that way. But as desperately as he wanted to ignore this strange little woman, he found himself genuinely curious.

"No, he's just…lost his way." She looked down, studying her fingernails.

Luc recognized a line of bullshit when he heard one, but he didn't press. He was a patient man. Besides, silence unnerved Americans. It was only a matter of time before the discomfort of sitting there quietly loosened her tongue.

But the thought of making her squirm more than he already stirred absurd feelings of guilt, so he sought instead to engage her in easy chatter. Over the next hour they spoke of books, her work as a historical librarian, and her move from a small town in the United States to the bustling Canadian metropolis of Toronto.

"I'll be a Canadian soon," she confided proudly. "Like my fiancé and his family."

"Congratulations," he said, pleased to keep the conversation centered on her. He'd revealed very little of himself and he liked it that way.

"May I ask you something else?" Belle finished her second generous shot of whiskey.

He nodded, refilling his own drink glass.

"Do you believe in love, the kind that lasts forever?" Those stunning cerulean eyes were dreamy, her voice silky with longing.

Frowning, he resisted the urge to laugh out loud at the silly, outlandish question. Any moment now the cartoon bluebirds were going to arrive. "I loved my mother."

She didn't catch on to his deliberate misunderstanding. "No. Everyone loves their mother. Even people who hate their mothers love their mother. The question is, one man meant for one woman."

"But it is not an interesting question," he said. "It is the question of a little girl who believes in fairy tales."

"No." She sniffed. " It's an everyone question. It's a question everybody thinks they have the answer to. Until one day…something happens."

"Something happened?" he repeated, pretending to be shocked.

"It's ok, I understand," she gave him a knowing look. "One love for you would be like having to eat at home for the rest of your life and you probably like to go out to a different restaurant every chance you get." She giggled, the sound dark and mocking, then playfully grabbed at his waist.

"Careful," He captured her little white hands and curved them around her now-cold Styrofoam cup of tea. Perhaps serving her spirits had been unwise, but the woman desperately needed to relax.

"So now tea is a good idea," she said, giving him a lascivious wink.

"Cherie, I think you are tipsy." She had had two drinks already, more than enough for someone of her size who probably rarely imbibed strong spirits.

"Am not." She hiccupped, the words slightly slurred. "Here, I'll prove it." She picked up his full glass and knocked it back in one swift gulp.

"That must have burned," he said dryly, patting her on the back as she coughed and sputtered.

"What is it with men, anyway?" she asked. "Always changing your minds. You think life is just one big buffet, don't you? Just pick whatever you want, whenever you want. Don't like this? Push it to the side of the plate. Hey, why not just dump it in the trash?"

"Are we still talking about books?" he asked.

Bypassing his question, she continued her nonsensical tirade. "Why is the song called 'I Love Paris'? 'Cause I don't love it. I hate it. Paris is where dreams go to die."

"Ok…" So she wasn't a fan of his city.

To his chagrin, she started to croon the old Cole Porter tune with some slight modifications. Like sarcasm and rage. "I _hate_ Paris in the springtime, I _hate_ Paris in the fall; I _hate_ Paris in the summer when it sizzles; I _hate_ Paris in the winter when it drizzles. I _hate_ Paris, oh why, oh why, do I hate Paris? Because my love is there with his slut girlfriend…" she trailed off, glaring at him like he was singlehandedly responsible for every failed romance since time began.

How anyone could go from philosophical to flirtatious to maudlin to bitter in such rapid succession was beyond even his vast scope of experience. He tried to flag down the bossy stewardess for more hot water for tea for Belle and more whiskey for him, but Belle took advantage of his distraction to punch him lightly in the ribs. This time he wasn't fast enough to stop her.

"Ouch! Be careful." He jerked out of her reach as her hand seized on something, almost hitting the slumbering man seated on the end. Watching her eyes widen, he cursed his own stupidity.

"What's that?" She patted the small bulge in his jacket for emphasis, sounding annoyingly sober. "Are you hiding something?"

"I hide nothing," he denied in a thick accent, darting into the aisle. "Excusez-moi, I must use the restroom again."

"Again?" she asked, her tone laced with doubt.

Dismissing her, he walked quickly toward the back of the plane, hoping he wouldn't have to wait in line. He wouldn't put it past her to follow him. With luck, one of the stalls was free and he disappeared inside with a relieved sigh.

Once ensconced in the tiny restroom, he unzipped his jacket and pulled out a small bundle wrapped in a soft cloth. Unwrapping the package with cautious haste, he inspected his cutting. Despite Belle's accidental pummeling, all the leaves were smooth and unblemished, the roots damp and still smelling of life and earth. Filling the sink, he sprinkled water on the roots—just enough to moisten them—without disturbing the rich clumps of soil they clung to.

Whistling, he rewrapped the plant and tucked it back into his jacket. Just a little while longer and they would be on the ground. Just a little while longer and the plans he had been shaping and nurturing for months would begin to bear fruit.

He returned to his seat, schooling his features into careful neutrality. He was prepared to answer what he was certain would be a litany of perceptive questions from the tiny shrew. But she was sleeping, her forehead resting on the window. There was a bit of drool on the airplane-issue pillow tucked against her neck.

He noticed her soft, book-filled knapsack occupying his place. Captain Cogsworth had just announced his intention to begin their descent into Charles de Gaulle Airport, but Luc knew it would be a solid 30 minutes until they were taxiing to the gate. Belle was very much asleep, emitting small snores that rustled the wisps of auburn hair curling near her mouth.

Other passengers were tucking their electronic devices and reading material into their carry-ons, soothing restless children, and buckling seatbelts in preparation for landing.

He pulled the wrapped cutting out of the inside pocket of his jacket. With a quick glance around to be sure no one was watching, he tucked the cutting deep inside Belle's satchel. Being mindful to position the seedling so it didn't get crushed by the portable library inside, he picked up the bag and secured it at her feet.

Pleased with himself, he removed his jacket and settled back into his seat. He was prolonging his association with the bookish beauty for a little while longer, but it was for a good cause. Oui, everything was falling into place.

###

 _Up Next: Luc offers Belle a ride into Paris, but his plans are derailed when he runs into an old friend._


	5. Best Laid Plans

_Summary: After two chapters of bickering on a very long transcontinental flight, Belle and Luc disembark and we meet a host of new characters. Like the gentleman that he is, Luc offers Belle a ride into Paris. Disinterested benevolence on Luc's part? Hardly. We all know he's keeping a secret or two. At the airport, unforeseen circumstances separate the hero and heroine. REVIEWS WELCOME_

 _"It is perfectly possible to be enamored of Paris while remaining totally indifferent or even hostile to the French."_ _ **–**_ _James Baldwin_

Her head hurt like hell. Belle leaned against the railing of the moving walkway, grateful for the dark sunglasses that shielded her from the light refracting throughout the terminal. The travelator carried her heavy suitcase and her leather knapsack dangled from her swollen fingertips. Water retention. Another delightful side effect of air travel.

She felt a presence behind her and turned her head slightly as Luc d'Or materialized on her left. The pounding in her head increased. She should have done as that nice Mrs. Potts suggested and stuck with tea on the flight instead of pouring tiny bottles of pain down her throat. What had possessed her to drink so much hard liquor? Sipping chocolate martinis with Ariel was more her speed. But she'd been terribly determined to show Mr. Haughty McWorldliness that Belle French could be bold and free.

"Why'd you let me drink so much?" Belle scowled at the man responsible for her hangover. Plying her with drinks. Mortified, she blushed, recalling her flirtatious behavior. What had she told him, anyway?

"I did not let you do anything; you did it yourself," he said.

Flashing a gold tooth, he smiled broadly and sparked a cigarette, taking a long drag.

Smoke wafting toward her, Belle swatted at the fumes and pulled a face. Heckling her again. Jerk. "This is a smoke-free area," she hissed. "Put that out right now."

"D'accord." He sighed in agreement, grinding the half-smoked butt under his boot heel.

Admiring his profile, Belle's irritation grew. What business did he have looking so good, anyway? After hours on the plane, her shirt was rumpled, her hair felt greasy, and all her makeup had rubbed off. Did she reek of body odor? She yanked her sweater more snugly around her shoulders in case other travelers could smell her.

Meanwhile, he had nary a strand out of place, his clothes looked clean and wrinkle-free, and despite his obvious nicotine addiction, he smelled bloody fantastic. Musk, sandalwood, and spices seemed to perfume the air around him. Even the stubble on his unshaven face was attractive, highlighting his high, angular cheekbones.

"What did you do, shower on the airplane?" She was grumbling at him uncharitably but couldn't summon the energy to care.

"I travel often. One grows used to it," he said, then changed the subject. "Do you have a car into Paris? Come, I will give you a ride."

Belle rolled her eyes and snorted.

It will save you a lot of money, believe me, cherie." He cupped her elbow to keep her steady.

She continued to stare at him, her mouth hanging open slightly.

"After what we have been through together?" He grinned, treating her to another one of those sexy lopsided smiles. "Where are you staying?"

"Hotel du Louvre."

"Oui, I know that hotel," he said. "Very chic. You are ready to go through Customs?"

Belle whimpered, desperate for him to stop yammering. Questions. So many questions. She wanted nothing more than to find Victor and crawl into a five-star quality bed with 1,000 thread-count sheets. So the hotel was classy? Good. A little pampering after the purgatory of the past 48 hours would be more than welcome. She would rest, bathe, and talk to her fiancé. Soon they would straighten out this entire matter and put the ugliness of the last two days behind them. It was all nothing more than a misunderstanding.

Belle fumbled in the outside pocket of her knapsack for aspirin and dropped the bottle. Luc caught it before it hit the ground and handed it back.

"Perhaps un café—a cup of coffee—would revive you?" Luc said.

"I…uh, um..." Belle didn't know what she needed. But they were approaching the Customs area and it was time to fill out her paperwork and have her belongings inspected.

"'Nothing to declare,' that is you," Luc instructed. "Me they are going to stop; they always do. I will meet you outside with a car shortly. Fifteen minutes, maximum."

"All right," Belle said. He gestured for her to precede him through the line. She was far too exhausted and overwhelmed to argue.

* * *

Hefting his compact overnight bag over his shoulder, Luc whistled as he waited in line to place his bag on the conveyor. Per usual, an agent beckoned him to the side and unzipped his bag. Fortunately his smuggled goods were still in Belle's bag. It had been touch-and-go there on the moving walkway as she'd looked through her bag for medicine to relieve her headache. Feeling a momentary surge of guilt, he squashed the emotion like a bug. This was a risk worth taking—they'd not stop a mousy little miss like Belle in a thousand years.

 _Excellent_ , he mused silently as she passed through the checkpoint with flying colors. The smiling agent didn't even put her bag through the x-ray machine.

At last, it was his turn. He presented his paperwork for inspection, when suddenly a familiar face came into view, calling out to him. "Luc! Wonderful to see you, friend."

A tall, blonde, blue-eyed gentleman ambled over and flashed his badge at the agent. "Give him back his passport," he ordered. David Nolan. Luc grinned in welcome and they shook hands and hugged, pounding each other on the back.

"What are you doing here?" Luc asked. His surprise was genuine. No one worked harder than David.

"You don't think a cop gets a vacation?" David laughed. "We're on our way back from London. Won't Marie Marguerite be surprised! And Emma and Neal—you know how they adore you. It's been too long, Luc."

"It has indeed," Luc said, surreptitiously scanning over David's shoulder in search of Belle.

David was probably Luc's best friend in the world. Well, his only friend, really. Though technically on opposite sides of the law, their friendship transcended legal and social boundaries. Luc had saved David's life once in a stakeout gone wrong, and the detective had never forgotten the thief's moment of kindness. Their relationship had materialized from there. Truly, David's family meant a lot to Luc. But right now, he had other matters to attend.

"Merci, David. Call me Monday; we'll meet for a drink," Luc said.

"Why wait? Allons-y, let's go now. Marie Marguerite is already out front with the car." David was eager.

"I've got something…" Luc hesitated, craning his neck to see that Belle was in line for coffee. He was assaulted by a feeling of relief that she had made it through Customs unscathed. No! _His things_. His things had made it through Customs unscathed. That was his focus. It had to be. Not that tiresome bit of baggage.

"What?" David probed, trying to follow Luc's line of vision. "Is something wrong?"

"No matter." Luc shook his head. "But Dove should be waiting with the car as well and I told him—"

David cut off the protest with a wave. "Oui, we saw your Silent Giant outside. Already sent him home to Therese and told him we would take care of you this morning. Poor man puts up with you all week long and you make him drive all the way out to Charles de Gaulle on a Saturday? Let him spend a morning in bed with his wife," David said, pausing as Luc's face clouded. "You're not angry, are you?"

"Of course not; that was very thoughtful of you, mon ami." Across the crowded terminal, Belle was still waiting for her beverage. Confounded woman! Luc relented. He knew where Miss French was staying. He would retrieve his belongings later. To delay David any longer would encourage the cop's suspicion. They were friends, true, but David was still a lawman. "Let's go," he said, slinging a casual arm around David's shoulder to keep him from looking back in Belle's direction.

Luc filed into the Nolans' van, accepting kisses on the cheeks from Marie Marguerite and affectionate squeezes from Emma and his son's two-year-old namesake, chubby-cheeked Baby Neal. Not 10 meters away, Luc noticed Belle approaching a taxi. He gritted his teeth. It was torture knowing she and her bag were so close, and yet too far for him to make any move that would not raise questions. Sending up a silent prayer that his plant was still safely nestled inside her little knapsack, he forced the matter aside. Hopefully the ton of books she carted around hadn't crushed its tender leaves. He inhaled a cleansing breath. Luc was a patient man. Watching the taxi spirit her away, he decided to bide his time. What choice did he have?

"Oncle Luc, are you really a thief?" Always inquisitive, 12-year-old Emma Nolan broke into his thoughts. She had insisted on sitting beside him in the van so she could pepper him with questions on the hour-long drive.

"A thief? Moi?" He turned the full force of his charming smile on her and she blushed sweetly.

"How is Neal?" the little blonde ventured. "I mean, your Neal?"

"Busy with school." Luc's answer was curt. He frowned when her pretty face fell. Damn. He hadn't meant to hurt her. He knew she had a terrible crush on his boy, though she had not seen him in two years. _Thank you, Milah_ , Luc thought, _for tucking him away in some fancy boarding school in Milan where I can rarely see him._

"I'm sure we will have a visit from him soon," Luc said. He patted her hand reassuringly, soothing himself in the process.

"Papa, why are you looking through Oncle Luc's bag?" Emma asked. David was flipping neatly through Luc's clothing. Ah, the resilience of youth. And more questions. She reminded Luc of someone else he knew. Belle French from the airplane. Bookish, inquisitive, bossy Belle. Shut up, you fool! Not everything is about Belle.

"For the same reason I spot-check your room sometimes," David said, winking at his daughter. "To protect the people I love. And sometimes the people we love need to be protected from themselves, Emma."

"You won't find anything in there," Luc said, pleased with himself.

The girl nodded, beaming.

Emma was a perfect angel, and the Nolans were an extraordinarily close family. Little Neal cooed and babbled short sentences while his sister stroked his dark curls lovingly. From her position in the driver's seat, Marie Marguerite smiled at them in the rearview mirror and David leaned toward his wife to cuddle her neck and press a kiss to her snow white cheek. A stab of envy shot through Luc as he observed their easy camaraderie and listened to their laughter and conversation. He appreciated being included in their loving little bunch, but in a way he would always be on the outside looking in. No, his chance for a family had come and gone. He hardened his heart along with his jaw. If there was one truth he knew without a shadow of a doubt, it was that Luc d'Or was better off alone.

"Is it true that Oncle Luc once saved your life, Papa?" Emma asked, pulling him back from his dark thoughts. She knew the story, had heard it 100 times. And still she begged for the tale every time she saw Luc.

"Oui, c'est vrai. It is true. You see this little scar right here?" David pointed to a jagged white line on the side of his neck, about three centimeters in length. "The guy we were chasing grabbed me from behind and started to slit my gullet. Luc intervened and stopped that knife from going from here, all the way to here." He swept his finger across his throat in a dramatic gesture.

"Wow," Emma giggled, looking at Luc with admiration and gratitude. "You saved Papa. You're a hero."

Luc ducked his head, coloring slightly. He was in the right place at the right time, yes. He was quick with his hands, yes. But he was no hero.

"You're absolutely right, Emma," David said. "He's no criminal, that's what I keep telling him."

* * *

Upon arriving at the hotel, Belle made a beeline for the front desk. Sipping the hot black coffee in the taxi en route to the hotel had helped immensely. She didn't feel refreshed, exactly, but her hangover headache had faded to a dull thud in the back of her skull.

Belle dragged in a fortifying breath. In just a few minutes she would see Victor face-to-face, she realized. She dinged the small, polished service bell.

A tall, artfully dressed man with bored, heavy-lidded gray eyes and a mess of dishwater blonde curls approached her. Mouth twisted like he had just bitten a lemon, his elegant hand covered the bell, stopping the sound. "Oui, Madam?"

"Bonjour." Belle cringed, testing out one of the five French words she knew. It was laughable, really. She read and spoke one dozen languages fluently, but her distaste for this country and its citizens meant boycotting all things French, including the language.

"Do you speak English?" Belle inquired. "Or Spanish? Greek? Perhaps Mandarin Chinese?"

"How droll you are, Madam," the concierge said. "Of course I speak English. This is the Hotel du Louvre, not some backpackers' hovel."

"Hovel." Belle corrected his pronunciation. She cleared her throat at his searing glare and quickly got down to business. "Yes, could you tell me what room Dr. Victor Whale is staying in, please? He's expecting me."

"I'm afraid…Non," the tall snooty man replied in a nasal tone.

"Non? What do you mean, non?" Belle was incredulous.

"I mean…Non. Perhaps Madam could try the courtesy phone." He pointed a long elegant finger toward a small table in the opulent lobby.

"Well," Belle rejoined, "Madam has tried the courtesy phone. 'Do not disturb.'"

"I see," he said, staring down his nose at her. _Good Lord_ , she wondered, _was every person in this nation a haughty bounder?_

"What did you say your name was?" Belle asked, tapping her foot on the marble floor.

"I didn't. But since you asked so politely, I am Jefferson, Madam." He swept her a mocking half bow.

"Well, _Jefferson._ " She spat out the name like it was something foul. "I just spent seven hours on an airplane crossing an ocean." Belle gesticulated wildly. "I'm tired. I'm hungry. I want to see my fiancé. Are you going to help me or not?"

"Madam," he said in a bored tone, "as concierge is it my duty to vigorously safeguard the privacy of our guests. And if our guests require safeguarding from their own fiancées, well, after all, unlike some countries, France is not a nation of Puritanical hypocrites."

It was a short, albeit nasty lecture. Belle gave him a cold smile. Oooooh, she wanted to slap him across his smug face. But that wouldn't achieve her goal. And her goal was to see Victor as soon as possible. Pulling out her wallet, Belle slapped a generous tip on the desk. Sliding the bill towards himself, the concierge pocketed the money in his jacket pocket, his eyes never leaving Belle's face.

He cocked his head to the side in a silent challenge, awaiting her next request.

"Hey," she said, "I just gave you $50 Euros."

"Oui, Madam, and I took it. Merci. And if there is anything else I can do to help..." he shuffled a stack of papers loudly, smacking them against the desk. "Please let me know."

And before Belle could say another word, he stalked off.

* * *

Chastised, Belle slumped on a plush sofa in the lobby, glancing toward the glass elevator. For two hours she'd been sitting here, waiting for Victor. Her stomach grumbled like a freight train, but she didn't dare leave her post in search of a bite to eat. She had called Victor's cell phone numerous times, as well as the hotel courtesy phone. No answer. Bored, she alternated between texting Ariel and reading a book. Eventually, he would have to leave his room.

Utterly miserable and bordering on tears, she was gazing at Victor's picture inside the locket suspended from her neck when a shady-looking character approached. Dressed in a suit with a bright yellow shirt open at the throat to expose a patch of dark black chest hair, he smoothed back his slicked brown hair and sat down on the opposite cushion. Leaning away, Belle moved her bag to her other side and gave him a look of disgust. She was in no mood to be screwed with by another French guy. And this one was sleazy to boot.

"Bonjour, Mademoiselle," he said. "You are American, no?"

"For the moment." Belle replied cautiously, meeting his crystal blue eyes briefly. Was he actually wearing eyeliner?

"Well, forgive me for the intrusion," he said in a voice as smooth as hot honey, "but I saw you sitting here, looking a little sad. 'Why should such a beautiful woman look so sad,' I asked myself."

Belle's lower lip trembled and she wrapped her cardigan closer around herself with a delicate shiver, tucking the locket back inside her shirt. "Have you got an hour?"

"As a matter of fact, always," he said, edging closer. "Permit me to help you to forget your sadness and remember that you are in Paris, City of Love."

City of Love indeed, Belle thought. It should be called City Where the One You Love Loves Someone Else. "Can I ask you something?" Belle asked.

"Of course."

"Can you urinate with someone standing right behind you?" Curious, she peered at him closely as she repeated the words Victor had said to her on the phone the other night. Perhaps there really was something about Paris that made people fall so madly in love that all sensibility evaporated.

"I think I could manage it, yes." Moving even closer he whispered seductively, "Are you going to be the someone?"

"Me? No! That's not what I meant!" Belle was horrified. She couldn't seem to say anything to these despicable French people without them taking it out of context.

"No? You would perhaps like for someone else to stand next to me? It can be arranged." He eyed her quizzically, confused by her response. "Perhaps Pierre? Ashleigh?

"You have the face of an angel," he cooed reaching out to tweak her nose lightly, "but I am delighted to find that the mind is a little devil."

Outraged, Belle scrambled to her feet. "How dare you?" she shouted, "Mister, this is going to get you nowhere. I am sitting here waiting to meet my fiancé and if he sees you bothering me, if he sees you even talking to me, he is going to walk right over here and—"

Belle broke off her tirade at the sound of the gigolo's loud, long, catcalling whistle. Transfixed, he stared at something over her head. Following the direction of his eyes, she whipped around. The elevator. The see-through, totally clear, glass elevator.

She was hallucinating, to be sure. Witnessing a living, walking nightmare.

Dressed for dinner, Victor was descending down the shaft, his arms filled with a stunning, leggy, raven-haired beauty clad in a very short, very red dress with a plunging neckline. Victor, her Victor, was totally absorbed in kissing the woman's neck. She nipped at his shoulder and they murmured to each other, exchanging tiny, teasing kisses.

Unable to believe her eyes, Belle looked on as they exited the elevator across the lobby, wrapped in each other's arms. Making their way towards the hotel doors, they stopped, fusing their eager mouths in a long, hot, kiss.

Nausea and dizziness battled with a need to announce her presence, but Belle's vision began to swim with pinpricks of purple light and no sound passed her parched lips. The image of that passionate French kiss between her fiancé and the _goddesse_ was the last thing she saw before her world went black.

###

 _Up Next: Luc comes to the hotel in search of Belle, but her bags are missing._


	6. Baggage

_"Paris is a moveable feast." – Ernest Hemingway_

Luc steered the motorcycle to a screeching halt in front of the Hotel du Lourve.

Lunch with the Nolans had gone on for hours. As she did every weekend, Marie Marguerite had insisted on a traditionally French multi-course feast of terrine, broiled fish, cheese, and fruit tart. Though the wine had flowed freely and the offerings were delicious and plentiful, Luc picked at his food and barely sipped the rich, fruity beverage. Knowing his fondness for wine David had eyed him curiously, but Luc ignored the questioning glances. While he feigned interest in the table conversation, smiled absently at the children, and murmured his appreciation to Marie Marguerite, all he could think of were his precious belongings stowed in Belle's knapsack.

After the eternal luncheon ended, Marie Marguerite had tried to convince him to spend the night, but Luc politely refused. David had agreed to loan Luc his prized Ducati so he could get back to the city. Promising to see the Nolans again soon, Luc hopped on the motorbike and sped to the center of Paris as fast as the wind would carry him.

Muttering a curse, he carefully parked David's other pride and joy and rushed to the hotel's revolving door. Belle could be anywhere. What if she had already met up with that moronic fiancé of hers and left? As he pushed on the glass to enter the lobby, he spotted a familiar face—Jones, one of the city's most notorious con artists and gigolos. They'd had their share of run-ins, but typically Jones gave Luc—and this section of town—a wide berth.

"Jones? What are you doing in this neighborhood?" Luc's voice was sharp and he glanced distractedly at the suitcase and leather knapsack the Irishman was wheeling. "I thought you preferred the subway?"

"D'Or." Jones nodded curtly. "Not anymore. I'm a new man with this suit." Nervously, he fingered his purple and grey tie.

Luc eyed him curiously. Something was off, but he couldn't place what.

"See you around," Jones tossed back as he jettisoned out the whirling door, propelling Luc inside.

Luc shrugged, forgetting the encounter. It wasn't uncommon for Jones to be in a hurry. Scanning the lobby for any sign of Belle, he saw a collection of people crowded around something on the floor. Stepping closer, he rolled his eyes heavenward. There was Belle, lying on the floor of one of Paris's finest establishments, stone cold unconscious. Why was he surprised? Problems followed that woman like heat-seeking missiles.

Waving the rubberneckers and lollygaggers away, Luc knelt down to rouse her. He patted her cheeks and fanned her book in front of her face, and finally, delivered a light slap.

The smack did the trick.

"Victor?" she asked, waking with a start. Her blue eyes were round as teacups in her pale face. "Ugh, it's you," she scowled, her color returning along with her sass. "Hey, you said you'd give me a ride! You said…wait, where are we?"

"In your hotel. Come, cherie, I take you to your room." Belle was limp as a ragdoll, forcing him to hold her up.

"I don't have a room," she moaned, letting her head loll back against his chest. "Someone has taken my room. Someone in four-inch heels, a red dress."

Knees buckling, Belle plopped down on the sofa with Luc's help, then gasped in horror. "Oh my God! My bags! My bags are gone!"

"Gone?!" he leaped to his feet. "What do you mean they are gone? How can they be gone?" Frantic, he whipped the cushions off the couch and crawled under the furniture, hoping that his plant had somehow tumbled out of her knapsack before it was stolen.

"What are you doing? Why are you looking under there?" she argued. "I didn't lose my keys, I lost my suitcase!"

"Where did you put them down?"

"I passed out right there…oh, all my money, my passport, my books…"

Rushing over, Jefferson the concierge arrived on the scene. He glowered condescendingly at Belle before turning to Luc. "Monsieur, may I be of assistance?"

"Can you be of assistance?" Luc repeated, switching over to French and stabbing Jefferson in the sternum with a finger. "Where are Mademoiselle's bags? What happened to her bags? What am I…I mean she…supposed to do without her bags?!"

"Monsieur, I'm sorry, I didn't see what happened," he frowned, eyes widening as he took a step back.

"Yeah! Yeah!" Belle crowed like a spectator at a football match, waving her fists and glaring at Jefferson. "You tell him."

Luc rounded on her, snapping in frustration: "How could you let this happen?"

"Hey!" she snapped back. "What is your problem? They're _my_ bags!"

Inhaling deeply, Luc calmed his racing heart. Screaming at her wasn't going to solve the problem, even if his plans were hanging in the balance. Perhaps if he jogged her memory, he could track the luggage (and his things!) down himself. "You're right. I'm sorry. Do you remember anything before you fainted?"

"I was sitting right here, waiting for Victor, and then this guy came over and talked to me," she glanced toward the elevator and paled. "And then…I saw Victor…" she faltered, swaying on her feet.

"Ok, here we go again," Luc said, pulling her back to the sofa. "Sit. Sit." Grasping her shoulder blades roughly, he pushed her head between her knees, up and down, up and down; anything to keep her from passing out again before he found out what he needed to know. "Breathe!" he instructed. "Breathe! Breathe!"

"Ok! Ok! I'm breathing, I'm breathing," she whined. "You know what? All men are bastards."

"Well not _all men,"_ he objected mildly. "Some of us are just trying to be helpful."

"No. I never thought I'd be the kind of woman to say this, but it's true. All men are bastards."

"Oui," he agreed, giving up. Luc knew that mule-headed look—arguing with her now would be futile. "Now, this man you met," Luc questioned, "he was…"

"A bastard," Belle finished emphatically. "A Eurotrash in Armani kind of bastard."

"He was wearing a black suit? A purple shirt? Dark hair?"

"Yes! Yes! How did you know all that?" Belle was incredulous. "Oh, that's right, _all_ you bastards know each other!"

"Oui," he agreed again. He needed to get his belongings back before Jones sold them off to the highest bidder. "I think I know where we can find him."

"Really? And why are you helping me again?" she asked.

"Because I like you," he lied smoothly. At least, he thought he was lying.

Belle scowled in disbelief.

"I do," he insisted. Mockingly, Luc placed his hand over his heart. If he acted too invested in her welfare, she might see through his charade. "Cherie, you slay me. I am only trying to be of service."

"What's in it for you?" Belle frowned suspiciously.

"Madam. Monsieur." Jefferson once again materialized between them, disapproval in his tone. Luc looked around the hotel. He and Belle's animated conversation and crawling around on the floor had drawn more than a few questioning stares. "Madam has no room at this establishment; now, I must ask you to leave or be escorted out." The order was firm.

Furious, Luc grabbed the snooty employee by his too-tight, starched collar and all the blood drained from his face. "You would toss this woman out on the street? When she has lost everything?"

"Hotel policy," Jefferson shrugged. "Loitering is prohibited. Leave now."

"D'accord," Luc nodded, releasing him as if the matter was closed, then slammed his fist into Jefferson's nose. Blood spurted everywhere, and the concierge crumpled on the marble floor, howling in pain and yelling for security.

"Bastard," Belle said, looking down at Jefferson with satisfaction.

Four guards burst into the lobby, shouting in rapid-fire French. Luc seized Belle's hand, dragging her toward the street. Digging in her heels and grinding to a halt, Belle scrambled back toward the sofa. What was she doing now?

"Shit!" Luc growled impatiently as Belle picked up her book and ran for the exit, dodging two guards who lunged for her and collided with each other.

"Enough!" Luc spat, throwing Belle over his shoulder and hauling her out the door.

"Put me down! Put me down this instant!" she yelled, swatting at his back with her book.

They reached the sidewalk where the motorbike was parked, and Luc unceremoniously deposited Belle on her feet. "On!" he barked, shoving the helmet on her head.

"No way!" Belle refused, backing away from the shiny red bike. "I don't do motorcycles."

"You don't do planes, you don't do motorcycles." Exasperated, Luc raked a hand through his hair. "What exactly _do_ you do, cherie?"

"I-I'm thinking!" she hedged, clutching her book tightly to her chest. "What about my book?"

"Dump it in that trash can over there," he said emotionlessly.

"But this is _Jane Eyre,_ " she protested, squinting at him like he'd lost his mind. Then softly she entreated, "Please. It's the only thing I have left that's mine."

She looked ready to cry and that he could not handle. Anything but tears.

"Fine!" he snarled, grabbing the book and thrusting it inside his jacket. "Inside the hotel, they are no doubt calling la police," he threatened, swinging a leg over the side of the Ducati. "So, are you coming? Unless…you are afraid?"

 _That_ motivated her.

Her eyes flashed with intensity. "I will go," she said, making it clear that the decision was hers and hers alone.

Satisfied, he nodded, helping her onto the back of the motorcycle and revving the engine. He'd rather have her spunky, snapping, and snarling. Anything but staring at him with the innocent face of a lost, wounded little girl. That look made his chest tighten and his breathing constrict. He had already gone too far out of his way on her behalf. As she tightened her arms around his waist and pressed her cheek to his back, he cursed himself thoroughly over the roar of the motorcycle. Why had he let that pompous ass of a concierge get in his craw? Punching him for his rudeness had been disproportionate. It was all her fault, he decided. Making him want to act like a decent human being. No. His association with this perplexing young woman had to end. Now. He needed to find Jones, retrieve his belongings, and get on with his life.

And Belle French? She was on her own.

* * *

Luc pulled up to an unassuming building on an unassuming Paris block, and Belle squelched a feeling of disappointment that the ride was over. Those 20 minutes on the back of Luc's motorcycle had been absolutely exhilarating. At first, she'd been too scared to watch where they were going and had simply pushed her cheek against his back, inhaling the buttery, slightly metallic softness of his leather jacket. When she finally worked up the courage to open her eyes, she caught her breath at the incredible architecture, the trees gracing every boulevard, the tiny parks. They passed famous landmarks, including the Louvre, the Arc de Triumph, and the Champs Elysées. Paris really was beautiful, and taking in the sights on a motorcycle with the wind in her hair and the scent of cherry blossoms perfuming the air? It was a feast for the senses.

The warm comfort of being pressed up against Luc's strong, wiry frame didn't hurt, either.

"So who's this guy who stole my bags?" she asked, hurrying after Luc as he stalked across the busy street.

"Jones."

"Jones?"

"Oui, Jones," he said.

"And, why are you helping me?" she asked again.

"Let's just say I'm invested in your future," he quipped. "Now, explain this to me, because I still don't really understand why you're here. You don't like Paris, you hate the French, and you say all men are bastards."

"Because Victor—"

"Ah, yes, speaking of bastards, let's talk about Victor. Your _fiancé_ who dumped you over the phone. He calls to tell you he has met this _goddesse,_ he humiliates you, and he breaks your heart."

"Right," she nodded.

"And now you've come to Paris, why? So he can do it again? But this time right in your face? Why would you want to put yourself through that?"

"No. No. I came to Paris to get back the man that I love," she insisted. "Once he sees me…everything will change. The spell will be broken."

"Just like a fairy tale," he scorned. "I'm sure with that strategy you will have no trouble getting him back."

"Oh, I see. You don't think I can change his mind!" she challenged. "I can. I will. We had a life together. A wonderful, perfect life together."

"Evidently," he smirked.

"Happy. I've never been so happy. We had plans, ok? Plans for a home and a family. I will remind him of that."

"He was obviously very attached to them," he said dryly.

"If all else fails…"

"What? You'll beg?"

"It's possible," she shrugged.

"Oui," he chuckled. "I can see it now. There is the _goddesse_ standing next to Victor in her negligee, and there you are, on your knees, begging. Poor Victor. Tough decision."

Belle grabbed his arm. "I didn't beg."

"No. You fainted," he reminded her pointedly. "Ah, this is the place." He slowed as they approached a grungy little flat and Luc unceremoniously bashed in the weak door.

"Jones." Luc greeted the con man, who had stripped out of his suit. "You remember my friend, Belle."

"Hello, love," Jones leered, toying with a lingerie catalog. He was reclining in boxer shorts emblazoned with tiny pirate ships, a sleeveless white t-shirt, and high black socks. Belle snorted at the ridiculous ensemble. Then she noticed the hook. Hadn't he had two hands when she encountered him in the hotel? The hooked hand must be a prosthetic. Yes, there it was, sitting on a stand in the corner. Belle shuddered. Good Lord, the man was creepy.

"D'Or." Jones stood as Luc snatched Belle's knapsack off a small table. Overturning it, he dumped the meager contents. A bottle of aspirin, some antacid tablets, and a few hair clips clattered to the warped wood floor.

"Where's the rest?" Luc demanded, tossing Belle's bag aside and rummaging through the apartment, throwing things around. What was he looking in there for? Her clothes weren't going to be inside old shoeboxes.

"Hey!" Belle said to Jones, stooping to pick up her bag. "What about my money? My passports?"

"Forget the passport," Luc threw over his shoulder, clearing a shelf with a sweep of his arm. "He sold it already. First thing to go."

Jones grinned and raised his hook in a salute, a cigarette hanging out of his mouth. He seemed completely unconcerned that Luc was ransacking his apartment.

"What!? What about my suitcase and my clothes? Ask him about my books!" she demanded.

"Where are her things?" Luc asked Jones in French.

"I gave them to Ashleigh."

"Ashleigh? What happened to Anna?"

"She married into an ice empire," Jones laughed.

Belle couldn't understand a single word, and the circumstances made her dizzy with worry. No passport. No money. How was she going to get back to Canada? She wasn't a citizen yet. She was going to be deported back to the U.S. Oh God, she'd have to go back to boring old Storybrooke and work in her father's flower shop till the day she died. No way was she going back to that life.

"Hey! Hey! I hate to interrupt a meeting of Paris Mob Bosses Anonymous, but where the hell are my things?"

"Uh…" Luc hedged, not wanting to tell Belle that a prostitute had all her clothes. "He threw everything away."

"Even the books? Savage! This really is the most uncivilized, barbaric nation on the face of the planet," she proclaimed.

"Oooooh, fire. I like that in a woman. Perhaps you'd care to come work for me, love," Jones invited, running his hook down her cheek. "Beautiful piece like you. I could make it worth your while."

"How do you say 'You make me sick' in French?" Belle asked, smacking his hook away from her face.

"Careful, Jones!" Luc advanced, shoving Jones away from Belle. "Now, unless you want me to cut off your other hand, I'm going to ask you one last time. Where is the rest?"

Jones paled at the reminder that he'd lost his first hand to Luc's temper. "It's all gone, d'Or. Everything. Everything except…that." He pointed at the windowsill where a petite plant with roots wrapped in burlap soaked up the last rays of the afternoon sun.

Belle watched speechless as Luc rushed to the window to scoop up and cradle the plant in his hands, murmuring endearments in French and bestowing a tender kiss at its base.

And suddenly everything became clear. Why he'd befriended her on the airplane. Why he'd offered her a ride into Paris. Why he'd come to the hotel looking for her. Why he'd helped her search for her stolen property. She was a simply a pawn in his smuggling game. In her embarrassment, Jones' small, depressing flat suddenly seemed like a tiny padded room. Feeling hot, sick, and utterly wretched, Belle ran out the door.

Outside, she dragged in enormous gulps of air and tried to still her racing heart. Tears sprang unbidden to her eyes and she dashed them away angrily. First she'd been jilted by Victor. She wanted to call Ariel for support, but her mobile phone was gone along with her clothes, passport, and everything else of value she'd brought on the trip. Now she'd been played for a fool by a sardonic, smirking, sophisticated thief.

As she considered spending a night alone on the streets of Paris, tears began to fall in earnest. Was there no one in the world who cared for Belle French?

###

 _Up Next: Belle confronts Luc about using her, while Luc learns that something else is missing._


	7. A Rock and a Hard Place

_"A bad day in Paris is still better than a good day anywhere else." – Unknown_

"You hid a plant in my bag." Tripping over her own feet, Belle was practically running down the street away from Jones' seedy apartment.

Walking briskly to keep up, Luc cursed himself for probably the hundredth time since meeting this woman. He could have just let her go; he should let her go. He had his belongings back and there was no reason to follow. Yet he felt compelled to speak to her, to explain. "Belle," he called, jogging to keep pace.

Abruptly she stopped and turned to look at him. He winced, wishing she hadn't. Anger he could handle. Rage, disgust, pride, even fear—all feelings and reactions that were directed toward him on a regular basis. But it was pain he saw in the depths of her eyes, raw and honest. Luc's stomach began to churn.

Swallowing thickly, he justified, "It's not just any plant, it's a vine." But the words sounded hollow even to his own ears.

"Plant. Vine. Call it whatever you want." Belle's voice was hoarse. "The point is, that's why you're helping me. You don't care about me at all." She increased her speed again, making a beeline for a display of city maps.

"Belle, I am very sorry you lost your things, but it was not I who took them." He was not as bad as she was making him out to be. Was he?

"What if I had been stopped at Customs? In the world we live in, it's a miracle they decided not to check my bag. Did you ever think of that? Do you ever think of anything or anyone besides yourself?" She snapped open the map, scanning it as she walked.

"Don't be ridiculous," he scolded, plucking the map from her hands. Thank God she was arguing with him again. This, at least, was familiar ground. "People like you they don't stop. I mean, look at you. A prim, proper little girl who follows all the rules. Everything is by the book. Literally."

That comment earned him another glare. "Why do you think I chose you?" he reasoned, unable to resist another jibe. "You would declare a pack of chewing gum!"

"Give me back my map!" she ordered, trying to knock the vine out of his hands and the smug look off his face.

"Please, don't hit my vine! It's extremely delicate," he lectured, smoothly catching the airborne plant and tucking the map into his jacket.

"Map." Her jaw was rigid.

"You don't understand; this vine is my future." Women. Why he was telling her anything was beyond his scope of comprehension.

"Map!" She tried snaking a hand inside his jacket, but he evaded her easily.

He tried again. "It's my new beginning. I'm planning to start a new vineyard."

"How can you establish an entire vineyard with just one vine?" Belle's face flashed with skeptical interest, then flushed with renewed anger. "Never mind. Why am I listening to you, anyway? Every word out of your mouth has been a lie. Why would this be any different? Give me my map."

She actually stomped her little foot, and he chuckled. "No map. Cherie, this is for your own good. You cannot be so naïve, walking the streets of Paris in this neighborhood with your head down!"

"How else am I supposed to know where I'm going?" she accused. "I don't know this city! I have no passport, no money, no mobile phone. Nothing."

"Here," he said, digging into his pocket and offering her a wad of cash. "Take it."

"No," Belle shook her head. "I don't want your money."

"Please, cherie, don't be foolish," he implored. "Take it. It is what Jones got from the sale of your things. Why don't you spend the night at my flat until you decide what to do? It's not far from here. We can walk together. Or perhaps you would like another ride on the Ducati?" He pointed his thumb back toward where the bike was parked.

"I don't need anything from you. Not money. Not a wild ride. Not a place to stay. Nothing." She jerked her chin at the vine. "You got what you came for. What are you still doing here?"

"Belle, please." He was still holding out the cash, practically begging her to take it. At least he could do this much for her. Stubborn, bossy bit of baggage. Couldn't she see how hard he was trying?

"I don't want your money," she insisted. "Now go away! Stop following me!"

"Fine, cherie. Be my guest. Here's an idea: why don't you find yourself a little boy to boss around? But be careful not to let him out of your sight for more than three minutes."

"Go!" she repeated, presenting her back. So he'd been dismissed then? Good.

"As you wish," he shrugged, leaving the cash and the map on the ground with a meaningful look. Pride prevented her from accepting what he offered, but perhaps she would take the money once he walked away. "Bon chance," he waved.

Without another backward glance he rounded the corner, just far enough away to be out of her sight line. Peering around the edge of a building, he snorted in amusement. There she was, muttering to herself and gathering the crumpled bills that the warm spring breeze had scattered on the sidewalk. As he watched her march away with her nose in the air and stuffing money in her bag, he told himself he wasn't worried about her. She was a grown woman and he was not her protector.

Luc shook his head, emptying it of all thoughts of Belle French. He had important business to attend to. The vine hadn't been watered since he'd been on the plane, and it had been longer still since he checked on the necklace. Furtively, he glanced around. Satisfied that no one was watching, he removed the vine's protective burlap cover with trembling fingers. The roots had absorbed some water through the mesh that kept the clump of roots and soil intact. Carefully he unwound the mesh as well, probing gently for the diamond and platinum necklace he had buried in the roots.

It was gone. The necklace was gone.

The necklace that he had procured, protected on a transatlantic flight, smuggled through Customs, and endured many hours of aggravation to reclaim was gone.

"Damn it!" he barked. "Jones! Quel cretin miserable! Sniveling little weasel," he muttered to himself as he stomped back the way he came. He should have known better than to take Jones at his word.

Racing back to the gigolo's flat and smashing through the door for the second time in 30 minutes, Luc grabbed a gold-tipped cane leaning against the wall in the corner. Howling, he tackled Jones roughly to the rough wooden floor, pressing the cane against his windpipe. "Where is it?" he demanded, eyes bulging with fury. "Where?"

"Don't…know…what…I…can't…breathe!" Jones wheezed.

"My necklace!" he spat, pulling the cane back an inch to let the whiny scourge gulp a lungful of air. "Diamonds, platinum…hard to forget! It was buried inside that pretty little vine you had displayed on your windowsill. _My_ vine."

"What…necklace?" he rasped. "Please, D'Or! Can't….breathe!" Veins stood out on Jones' forehead as his skin turned an unpleasant shade of purple.

Jones was a lousy actor with a low pain threshold. And right now his whining was really pissing Luc off. He broke from his angry haze and withdrew the cane, drawing Jones up to a sitting position by his sweat-stained shirtsleeves. "You really don't know what I'm talking about, do you?"

"Non, D'Or. I didn't see any necklace; I swear it," Jones massaged his throat, panting heavily. "Where is Mademoiselle Belle? It must still be in her sac."

"In her sac?" Luc repeated in wonder, delivering a final, hearty push. Crashing to the floor with a dramatic moan, Jones continued to clutch his neck. Actually, the idiot's words made sense, Luc mused. A fragile, thin item like a necklace could easily have slipped out inside Belle's leather knapsack in transit.

Realization dawned along with renewed purpose; he would just have to find Belle again. Scowling, his mood blackened once more. Likely she was wandering the streets of Paris, still pining for that bounder of a fiancé. Not that he was interested in her romantically, he thought, gripping the cane as he headed out the door. Belle was merely a means to an end, and getting the necklace back was his end.

* * *

Trudging along glumly, Belle ducked into a convenience store and bought a disposable mobile phone. It had been several hours since she'd contacted Ariel with a status report, and both her best friend and Granny were probably frantic with worry. Hopefully, the jerk who had her phone was mightily irritated by the constant buzzing of Ariel's text messages.

Settling on a bench outside the store, Belle punched in the number, thankful that she'd picked up the cash Luc left behind after all. Ariel answered on the first ring. "Belles!"

Just the sound of Ariel's concerned greeting was enough to reduce Belle to tears. "How'd you know it was me?" she snuffled.

"It's been hours since you answered one of my texts. I saw a strange number with a Paris area code and put the pieces together," Ariel said dryly. "How you holding up, baby?"

"Oh, Ariel. You have no idea," she moaned. "My phone was stolen, my suitcase, my passport, all my books. This bastard even filched the book light you bought me for Christmas! What kind of person does something like that?"

"Um, Belles? I think you're hyper-focusing on a minor issue," Ariel said gently. "I'll buy you a new book light."

"I'm focusing on what I can control!" Belle snapped, then felt immediately contrite. None of this was her dearest friend's fault. "I'm sorry, Ariel."

"No apologies today," Ariel said. "You're under a lot of stress. What happened?"

Curling up on the bench and wrapping her cardigan around her knees, Belle relayed the entire unfortunate tale to Ariel—the bitter concierge, Jones the gigolo, Luc and his vine, and, finally, Victor and the leggy raven-haired beauty he was wrapped around at the snooty hotel.

"But I haven't told you the worst part yet," Belle's voice was small and sad. "She was wearing a massive diamond ring. Which I don't get, you know, because Victor's always so frugal with money. Why would he buy her such an expensive gift?"

There was a pregnant silence.

"You still there?" Belle asked.

"Belles, about that ring," Ariel paused, then dropped her voice to a low whisper. "He proposed to her."

"What about the ring? Please don't mumble. You know I hate it when you do that." Mumbling was one of Ariel's infamous delay tactics whenever she had to deliver bad news.

"He proposed to her," Ariel repeated, slightly louder, but all Belle heard was a muffled garble of words and a crunching sound.

"What is that noise? Ariel, honestly, this call is expensive." Belle's eyes narrowed. "Are you eating ketchup chips without me?"

"Oh, forget it! He proposed to her!" Ariel bellowed into the phone.

"What?!" Belle screeched.

"I know! My God, he's such a bastard. I can't believe you aren't going to be my sister anymore! Do I have to be friends with Rubie?"

"Ariel!"

"I mean, is that even her name? Get this: her last name is Loupe. That means "wolf" in French. I mean, how appropriate for a skanky husband stealer…"

"Ariel!"

"Can you believe he's whisking her away for a quickie wedding? What a pig. He wouldn't even set a date with you!"

"Ariel! Stop it, all right?" Belle's pulse pounded in her ears. "Listen to me. He's not going to marry her. Now, tell me everything you know."

"They're going to the south of France, to her parents' chateau. They're getting married there and coming back to Toronto. We're not even invited to the wedding! Not that I'd go…"

"Ariel, please. This is very important. You have to tell me exactly where they're going and when, ok? Never mind. Just go ask Granny. I'm sure she has it all scribbled down on a diner order pad."

"Got it. But Belle? Don't get mad, but are you still supposed to be calling her Granny?"

"Ariel! Everybody calls her Granny. Get her on the damn phone!"

At last, Granny's voice came over the line, and the weeping started all over again. "Belle, is that you, honey?"

Belle nodded around the lump in her throat and choked out a heavy sob.

"I have all the information written down," Granny soothed as Belle cried. " You can still reach him at the hotel in Paris."

Hearing Belle's heartbreak over her grandson was disturbing, and Granny flipped the mute button on to hiss at Ariel. "Remember that crossbow we almost bought at the hunting store? Forget it. I want the bigger one. I'll need it if I'm going to murder your brother."

"I'll take care of the skanky husband stealer," Ariel nodded.

"Honey, please stop crying," Granny begged, returning her attention to Belle. "I know he's my grandson and I shouldn't be saying this, but he's just not worth it."

"It's ok. I'm not crying because I'm sad. I'm just…I'm gonna get him back, Granny. I'm gonna get him back and I'm gonna make him love me. And we are going to live happily ever after," Belle promised. "Actually, if you think about it, these are tears of joy. Once Victor snaps out of this, he and I are going to be so, so happy."

Granny had no idea how to respond to Belle's loose grip on reality. If her girl were standing here, she'd cook up a basket of fries and fat, juicy hamburgers and talk some sense into her. But the usually strong and sure Belle seemed so fragile right now. That, and she was half a world away in that snail-lovers paradise. Granny opted for the subtle approach: "Belle, whether you marry Victor or not, I'm always going to love you like you're my own. You know that, don't you?"

"Of course, Granny," Belle replied obediently, cutting off the sentiment to rattle off the number of her prepaid phone. "Thank you for the information about Cannes. I have to go now and see if I can still catch Victor at the hotel. I'll call you soon with good news. Bye."

Huffing a giant groan, Granny hung up and slapped her hands on her chubby knees. "Well, this is a fine kettle of fish. She's convinced that Victor is just going through some kind of phase and once he sees her this spell he's under will be broken. Spell? Ha! It's called selfishness. But trust Belle to find a way to romanticize it. That girl reads too many books!"

"What should we do?" Ariel frowned.

"Pack your bags, my little mermaid," Granny directed, picking up the phone again to dial the airline. "You're crossing the pond today. Belle's going to need someone to help pick up the pieces when she realizes Victor's not some misguided knight in shining armor. Plus, you can help vouch for her so she can get a new passport and come home."

"It just so happens I have a new bikini. Didn't think I'd get to break it in before July," Ariel's hazel eyes sparkled with excitement.

"Down, girl. Your first priority is Belle. I'd only say this to you, but I must confess that part of me is relieved. Victor's just not right for Belle. They're too pragmatic, those two. Too much alike. Belle needs someone unpredictable, exciting, maddening," Granny confided, dabbing at her eyes. "Maybe without Victor as a lifeline, she'll actually have a chance to find someone who loves her for who she really is. I want her to experience more than a shell of a life—she deserves real, lasting happiness. That's my prayer, anyway. For all of you. Now get packing."

* * *

Dusk had settled over Paris by the time Belle wrapped up with Granny and Ariel, and now she was picking her way over cobblestones in the dark. Getting to the Hotel Louvre now wouldn't help her, anyway. No doubt Victor was entwined in the arms of his _goddesse_ and wouldn't answer the telephone. She'd never spent a night on the streets without shelter, but she didn't have enough money for a room. This trip was filled with unfortunate firsts.

Gnawing nervously on her lip, Belle squinted up at the red-roofed café on her right. Hadn't she been this way before? On this moonless night, Paris's roads twisted like a winding labyrinth, and suddenly she was walking down a black alleyway. Dead end.

"Well, well," a voice leered from the shadows. "What do we have here?"

Frightened, Belle lurched to a stop, turning her ankle and wedging her heel between two cobblestones. "Ahhh!" she squeaked in pain, trying to wrench her leg free. But all her tugging was useless—she was stuck to the ground like a hunted rabbit as a large man materialized under a dim light, circling her like a hawk.

"If it's money you're after, you're wasting your time," Belle argued, finding her tongue and her courage. Maybe she could talk her way out of this mess before the beast noticed that she couldn't move. "I've already been robbed by one of your hospitable countrymen today."

"What's your name, ma petite choux?" he asked.

"None of your business!" Belle shouted over the roaring in her ears and threw her nearly empty knapsack to the ground to distract him. "Here. Take it! There's some cash in the outside pocket. It's all I have left."

"Money doesn't interest me, love," he sneered, edging closer to run a beefy paw over her collarbone. Belle shivered in revulsion, which only served to encourage him. "Why don't you come a little closer and show me what else you have to offer?"

Trying in vain to wriggle out of her boot, Belle began to hyperventilate. She still couldn't budge and this guy was huge.

"Send help, God," she prayed, her teeth chattering. "Send help now."

###

 _Up Next: Rescue comes from an unexpected source. Belle slowly learns that Luc D'Or is a mystery to be uncovered._


	8. Friends

_I like The Eiffel Tower because it looks like steel and lace." - Natalie Lloyd_

Slumped in defeat, Luc tossed back his drink and slammed the glass down on the bar, motioning to the bartender for a refill.

Intent on retrieving his diamonds from the unwitting hands of Belle French, he'd retraced his steps to the hotel, visited The Eiffel Tower (the one thing she'd admitted to liking about Paris), and cruised around the neighborhoods where they'd driven and walked earlier that day. He'd even stood in line at the Canadian and American embassies craning his neck for a glimpse of brown curls and blue eyes. After all, she needed a new passport if she was ever going to get home.

But Paris was a sprawling metropolis and Belle French was the proverbial needle in the haystack.

Frustrated, Luc choked the handle of the cane he'd inadvertently lifted from Jones' hovel. Where could she be? Suddenly he brightened, the blood rushing back into his hand as he relaxed his grip on the cane. Perhaps the Bibliothèque de la Sorbonne—the city's largest library. The woman was a fool for books and there she could read anything her heart desired from medicine to law to letters. Yes, he'd head there next. Forgetting the fresh tumbler of whiskey at his elbow, he tossed some cash on the polished walnut surface and banged out of the bar.

Outside on the dim, quiet street, he paused, the sounds of a struggle in the alley next to the saloon piquing his interest. A woman cried out in pain and Luc stopped in his tracks.

He knew that voice.

Cautiously, Luc slinked along the side of the building with certain, stealthy steps, his back pressed against the stone wall. There was Belle, rooted to the ground, a mutinous expression on her face as a large muscled man advanced in her direction.

Luc cursed roundly. Trouble tailed that woman like an English noble on a foxhunt. Why didn't she back away? Call for help? Turn and run? Instead Luc watched in disbelief as Belle threw her knapsack at her pursuer's feet. But the man stepped over the bag, swiping one hand across Belle's chest while the other paw squeezed her hip hard enough to make her whimper. Luc's view of Belle was totally eclipsed and he swung into action, charging into the alley behind the stalker.

"Leave her alone!" Luc demanded through clenched teeth, grabbing the man roughly by the shoulder. He was drunk enough to be unbalanced by Luc, who was at least a head shorter and much leaner. Teetering on his feet, he peered owlishly at Luc through bloodshot eyes.

"Gah!" the man gasped in shock, turning a peculiar shade of green under the florescent light of the saloon's motion detector. "You're D'Or, aren't you?" There was deference in his tone and the difference in their sizes ceased to matter as he seemed to shrink under Luc's withering gaze.

Menacingly, Luc took a half-step toward him, tapping the handle of the cane against his open palm. "I am."

"I've heard the stories," the thug said, awed.

"My reputation precedes me; excellent," Luc nodded, knowing exactly how he was going to use this idiot's hero worship to his advantage. There was nothing more despicable to him than a man who preyed on women. Oui, he would teach this bastard a lesson he wouldn't forget.

"Yes; as does your penchant for making deals. I'm Nottingham, Monsieur. Seeing as she's your piece," he jerked his head back toward Belle," I don't suppose you'd let me play with her for an evening in exchange for some valuable intelligence?"

Still frozen in place, Belle opened her mouth to argue, but Luc silenced her with a tiny shake of his head, banking the blazing fire in her eyes.

"Oh? Luc nonchalantly fingered the hilt of the cane, sounding bored. "And what information do you believe you have that would be worth my time, cherie?"

"It's that detective David Nolan. He's been sniffing around for stolen passports," Nottingham confided.

"Is that a fact?" Luc drawled, his eyes glittering predatorily.

"Oui _._ " Nottingham puffed up his chest, sounding more confident. So about that deal for your _fille_..."

"I'm not dealing today," Luc snarled and squared his stance. "And if you think I would turn a woman over to the likes of you today or any day you're sorely mistaken."

"Listen, D'Or, it's not my fault...how was I supposed to know she's not for sale?" Nottingham faltered, beads of perspiration making his forehead slick and shiny under the light. Frightened by the black threat in Luc's eyes, he stumbled, backpedaling so fast he nearly ran into Belle, who still hadn't moved.

"'Not my fault?'" Luc mocked quietly. "What do you mean 'not my fault'?"

Snaking out a hand, Luc yanked Nottingham forward and slammed the butt of the cane into his belly. He crumpled to the ground with a low moan.

"If you ever touch her again, I'll kill you," Luc swore, following his lethal promise with three swift kicks to Nottingham's stomach, kidneys, and ribs. Blinded by rage, he grabbed Nottingham's hair to pull him to his feet, intent on continuing the one-sided fight.

"Luc! Luc!" The urgent calling of his name broke through his red haze. "Luc! Stop! Please! I'm not hurt! I'm fine!"

"This is what men like him deserve, Belle!" Luc hissed, wrenching on the roots of Nottingham's hair until he screamed and slamming his fist into his jaw.

"No! It's over. You saved me," Belle pleaded, stretching out her hands. "Let's-let's just go, ok?" She was shaking like an autumn leaf in a windstorm.

Panting heavily, Luc considered a moment, looking back and forth between Nottingham and Belle. Finally he relented, abruptly releasing Nottingham. "Get out of here, you're not worth it!" he sneered, spitting into his face. "You're not worth it."

Quickly, he strode to Belle's side moving over the uneven street with practiced ease. "Why didn't you run?" he demanded angrily, hauling her into a rough embrace.

"I couldn't," she replied on a laughing sob, relishing the security of the almost painful hug. "My foot is caught between the cobblestones."

"Only you," he said, shaking his head on a grim smile as he bent to release her foot. Once she was free, he straightened, cupping her tiny shoulders and drifting into those unfathomably blue eyes; eyes that were by turns calm, tumultuous, beautiful, and terrible—much like the sea. A man could drown in those eyes, he thought vaguely.

Suddenly he remembered why he had come looking for her in the first place and his relief faded, replaced by annoyance. The necklace. He'd forgotten all about it. When he saw Belle in danger, Nottingham looming closer and closer, he knew nothing but the primal need to protect her. In those moments, only Belle's safety mattered.

Belle blinked her eyes then she, too, chuckled gravely. For once she had no snappy retort. Her eyes were stormy, filled with an emotion he didn't understand and was terrified to explore. "Why do you care about me, Luc?"

Luc winced; his head was spinning like a top. He'd had too much to drink at the bar and the adrenaline rush from rescuing her unmanned him, making him say soft words and do weak things. Dropping his hands from her shoulders, he shuttered his gaze and took a purposeful step back. "I don't," he barked.

* * *

 _I don't._

Belle awoke in confusion, chased from her slumber by a jumbled dream of glass elevators, flashes of laughter and twirling red skirts, Luc's angry eyes, and the putrid smells of sweat and stale beer. Light streamed through the windows indicating that it was morning. Twisting her head quickly, she was relieved to find herself alone in a large, comfortable bed. Looking around the masculine, well-appointed bedroom decorated in rich woods and shades of burgundy, she noticed her clothes and her knapsack hanging over a chair in the corner.

Now she remembered.

This was Luc's flat. Last night, she'd been assaulted in an alley and he had been her unlikely hero. A moment of camaraderie had passed between them and she thought a casual friendship might be forming. But she had misjudged the situation. He'd come right out and said it—he didn't care about her. But then why did he keep coming around? He had his vine back, so what was he doing chasing her all over Paris? He had even insisted that she take his bedroom while he slept on the couch. Despite his verbal slap, last night she'd been too frightened and exhausted after her encounter with her would-be rapist to do anything but obediently follow Luc home.

Belle sighed. He was a mystery all right, or maybe the problem really was her. Victor had walked out and Luc seemed to think she wasn't worth his time. Belle's eyes burned with tears. When had she gotten so poor at reading signals from other people? Or was it just signals from men? Annoyed, she punched the pillow and rose from the soft bedsheets and blankets to face another day. Grimacing, she pulled on her stale jeans and the three-day-old shirt she'd donned before the airplane ride. She really needed to buy some new clothes as soon as possible. Maybe she could get some money wired from her bank in Toronto, assuming she could prove her existence without identification. She would have to call Granny again for advice, but first she needed a hot shower and some strong black coffee.

Belle unlocked the door and tiptoed out into the hallway. Luc was nowhere in sight, but a pillow and a blanket lay neatly folded at one end of the sofa where he'd slept. Curious, she looked around the opulent living room decorated in leather and more of the same deep burgundy shades she'd seen in the bedroom. Beautiful treasures and trinkets were displayed everywhere, the room resembling more of a museum than a home. Although she longed to explore, the rumbling of her stomach and the delicious scents brought her up short, reminding her that she hadn't eaten since yesterday morning. Coffee. She smelled wonderful, rich coffee as well as something sweet. Following her nose to the kitchen, she saw Luc sitting at a small café style table, his back to her. Good. After his insulting comment last night, she wasn't ready to face him quite yet.

Belle headed back down the hallway to the bathroom where a wrapped bar of soap, fluffy towels, and a new toothbrush welcomed her. Never had she been so grateful to see fresh hygiene products. Okay, so Luc wasn't completely horrible.

Reveling in the feeling of hot water beating down on her skin, Belle savored the first real cleansing she'd had in days. As the soapy water circled the drain, Belle imagined herself releasing every unsavory encounter she'd experienced since arriving in Paris: Jefferson the rude concierge; Jones the gigolo-thief; Victor and his lady love; and finally, Nottingham. As for Luc, she'd sort out her thoughts on him later.

After combing her wet hair and slipping back into her clothes, Belle left the bathroom, her attention drawn to a closed door across the hallway. What was in there, she wondered. Could it be a den? An office? Perhaps another bedroom? Curiosity overwhelmed her, and before she knew it she was standing on the threshold, soundlessly turning the handle of the door.

Walking slowly into the center of the room, Belle took in the twin bed with a bright blue comforter, stuffed animals, beanbag chairs, small trophies, and posters of football players. Though everything was sparkling clean, Belle had the distinct impression that this room hadn't been lived in for some time. On the bed was a pair of boys' jeans and a red hooded sweatshirt, laid out reverently as if waiting for someone's return. Belle shivered. She opened the closet to find even more outfits for boys. Little jackets, khaki trousers, white shirts, and even a small necktie. Feeling guilty for snooping, she quickly left the room suppressing another shudder. Luc d'Or had a son?

* * *

Luc stared into his coffee cup, pulverizing a biscuit in his long, tapered fingers.

She'd locked the door last night, damn it. Not that he could blame her after she'd been attacked on the street. In her situation, he'd have done exactly the same thing. It just made his plans so much more complicated. Luc had decided to let Belle spend the night in a safe, warm place, feed her breakfast, and send her on her way—after reclaiming his necklace, of course.

Now as she sashayed into his kitchen, flushed pink and pretty from her shower with wet tendrils of hair leaving damp marks on her shirt, he suppressed a groan. It seemed he was stuck with her for a little while longer.

Grunting, he nudged a cup of coffee in her direction and nodded toward a plate of fruit, cheese, and biscuits for her to break her fast.

"Good morning to you, too," she smiled. "Thank you for your hospitality and for helping me."

He searched her tone and her face for irony and was disappointed to find none. Sarcasm was always easier for him to deal with than pleasantness. He'd become accustomed to her shrewishness. "It's no matter," he grumbled, vigorously stirring his now cold coffee.

Belle seemed determined not to notice his dark mood. Wrinkling her nose and giving the wedge of brie cheese a wide berth, she plucked a bunch of green grapes from the plate then perched in the chair opposite him, popping the little round fruits into her mouth one by one.

"Luc?" She hesitated, and out of the corner of his eye he saw her nibble her lower lip as if she was gathering the courage to say something. "The room across the hall from yours…I looked inside. On the bed and in the closet I found clothing, small, as if for a child?"

Surprised, he raised his head but made no reply, just crumbled another biscuit into his cup. He should shout at her for invading his privacy, but found he didn't have the heart. She'd been through enough in the past few days and endured his black temper besides.

"Was it yours?" Belle persisted, and he felt her gaze on him. "Or is there a son?"

Still he said nothing and his heart constricted painfully as he thought about Neal and the long, lonely years that had passed since he'd last seen him. After a few interminable minutes, Belle gently touched his arm. "I understand if you don't want to talk about this. I won't push you. But other than Victor, you're the only person I know here in Paris. Can't we...can't we please be friends?"

"Friends?" he questioned softly, turning the word over slowly.

"Yes, friends," Belle repeated.

"And what is Victor?" Unbalanced by her discovery of Neal's room, Luc couldn't stop himself from reminding her of her own awkward situation. He bit the inside of his cheek, hating himself for being such an ass.

"We love each other," Belle replied quietly, refusing to take the bait.

"And is there a difference between friends and lovers?" Luc asked.

"Definitely," she replied seriously. "I think…I think a person can live without lovers but no one can live without friends."

"Indeed," he murmured, pleased with her answer. The left side of his mouth turned up at the corner and he felt the pressure in his chest uncoil.

"Anyway," she said impishly, lightening the mood even further. "It seems no matter where I go and what messes I get into, you're always in the right place at the right time."

"Well, _friend_ , I suppose I should try to help you get a new passport," he offered gruffly, shocking himself at his own gallantry. "Let me make some calls."

"That would be lovely," she beamed, breaking a sweet biscuit and dunking it into her coffee. "Thank you, Luc."

###

 _Up Next: Belle tries to get a new passport. Tracking a stolen necklace, David re-enters the picture while Belle and Luc chase Victor to the south of France._


	9. Lost in Translation

_"In Paris they simply stared when I spoke to them in French; I never did succeed in making those idiots understand their own language." – Mark Twain_

Belle pushed an errant curl back from her face, feeling glum. She limped slightly, her ankle smarting a bit from when she'd caught it on the cobblestones last night. Longingly, she eyed the boutiques lining each side of the road, as bright and inviting as popsicles on a hot summer day. What she wouldn't do for a change of clothes! But without cash and credit cards, the chic jeans and Spanish-style top she admired in a window were way out of range. Hopefully the money Granny was wiring would arrive soon. She needed to straighten out this whole mess, talk to Victor, and go back to Toronto where she belonged. Yes, getting home meant boarding yet another airplane, but at the moment her fear of air travel was far down on her list of worries.

"Well," she hedged, determined not to complain, "that could have gone better."

Luc walked along beside her and even with all that had gone wrong, his presence lifted Belle's spirits. True to his word, he'd escorted her to the American Embassy. For two hours he'd waited with her in line, until a petite man aptly named Sergeant Fatigué yawned loudly and instructed Belle to collect copies of her Canadian citizenship papers so he could process her request for a new U.S. passport.

Surprisingly, Luc was a comforting source of support, even if she had to put up with his scowls and sarcastic comments.

"Perhaps if you hadn't gone on and on to the agent about how wonderful Canada and your Canadian fiancé are, it would have been easier," he pointed out, rolling his eyes.

Belle smothered a secret smile at his grouchiness. She was quickly learning that his bark was far worse than his bite. "I doubt that was the problem," she said dryly. "I think he missed his morning nap. He could barely keep his eyes open while I was talking. I thought he was going to ask for a blanket and fall asleep in the middle of our conversation!"

Luc grinned at that, steering her down the block. "Oui, he did look rather tired. No matter. Come along, cherie. We'll try the Embassy du Canada next."

"Ok," Belle agreed cautiously. He wasn't snarling or snapping at all. Her skin prickled in alarm—was it more than good will that was driving his decision to be nice to her? You're just being paranoid Belle, she told herself. Luc had already recovered the vine he'd hidden in her bag. What else did she have that he could possibly want?

Once at the Canadian Embassy, they didn't have to wait long at all. Within 20 minutes, Belle and Luc were ushered down the hall by another petite man who blushed and gave her a sheepish smile. "Agent Clark will see you now, Miss French," he stammered shyly.

Belle surveyed the modest office, a simple space with grey walls, a grey metal desk, and a small window. Tissue boxes of all shapes, sizes, and colors adorned the small room and the odors of hand sanitizer and Lysol permeated the air. A smiling man with dark hair was seated behind the desk. "I'm Tom Clark, Miss French." He covered his mouth with a tissue and sneezed. "Please, have a seat."

"You have quite a few tissues in here," Belle observed.

"Yeah, it's kind of a fetish of mine," he quipped. "Back in Edmonton, I used to be a pharmacist."

Before Belle could respond, an urgent, ominous sound rent the air. Still standing in the office doorway, Luc fumbled in his pocket for his mobile phone and peered at the screen, frowning.

"Is that the _Jaws_ theme?" Belle teased, listening to the ringtone. "Good friend of yours?"

"Oui," Luc said unsmiling, focused on tapping out a message with his index finger. He exited the screen with a rapid click and shuffled backwards. "Belle, please excuse me. I just remembered something I need to do. I'll, uh, see you later, oui?"

"What do you need to…" Belle began, but Luc had already disappeared down the hall. "Typical," she murmured, dropping into the chair opposite Mr. Clark's desk.

"No worries, Miss French." Clark waved a tissue and wiped his nose, getting down to business. "I really only need to talk to you. Now, I'm going to ask you a series of questions and after each one you comment, ok?" Agent Clark sneezed again loudly, once, twice, three times.

"Gesundheit," Belle told the man sitting opposite her. "Sounds reasonable enough," she nodded, plucking a fresh tissue from a box and handing it to him. He accepted it gratefully.

"You weren't supposed to leave Canada, eh?" He punctuated the question by blowing his nose.

Belle squirmed in her chair, recalling her conversation with Victor while they were packing for the trip. Her temporary international travel ban was the reason she'd decided not to come to Paris in the first place. Well, one of the reasons. "I realize that, Mr. Clark. I do. But an emergency situation arose and I needed to….wait, what are you writing?"

Furiously he pounded on his keyboard, angling the computer screen away from her as Belle craned to see the words. "Why didn't you request permission to leave for your emergency?

"I should have," Belle said contritely. "I realize that now. But an emergency, by definition, really doesn't give you the time, does it?"

"Hmmmmm," he sniffled, banging repeatedly on the Enter key.

Belle frowned. All she wanted was to get her fiancé back and go home, but this interview was going south fast. Hoping to appeal to his sense of patriotism, she explained, "You see, Mr. Clark, I want to be a Canadian more than anything. I want to be just like you. It's home. Please, believe me, I just want to go home."

With a pride-filled smile Agent Clark nodded, then drew his attention back to the screen. "Uh oh." His face fell.

"What are you reading now?" Belle worried, her palms beginning to itch. Earnestly she leaned forward in the chair, blinking her eyes.

"Oh, ok," he said, mimicking her actions and peering closely at her face. "Have you…ever been convicted…of a felony?"

He glanced back at the screen, then looked at Belle. Nervously, she darted her eyes around the room, looking everywhere but at Agent Clark. She glanced out the window and concentrated on breathing slowly and evenly, but what she saw outside made her do a double-take. Luc was standing across the street talking to someone. The interview forgotten, Belle stood up and stepped over to the window, trying to get a closer look. His companion was a stunningly beautiful woman with dark brown hair, smartly dressed in a sensible pantsuit. Belle watched the woman hand Luc an envelope and then he kissed her, brushing his lips across both cheeks. Inexplicably uncomfortable, Belle massaged the back of her stiff neck. He'd never greeted her that way.

Insufferable man. He could kiss whomever he wanted however he wanted whenever he wanted. Why should she care?

"Uh, Miss French?" Clark sneezed again.

"Yes?" Belle said, still engrossed in the scene on the sidewalk.

"Could you answer my question?" Agent Clark waited, tapping his fingers on the desktop.

"What question was that?" Belle blanked, her mind on whatever Luc d'Or was up to now.

"Have you ever been convicted of a felony?" Clark repeated.

"No…" Belle cringed, glancing back at Clark and then looking back out the window. Luc was gone and so was the other woman. She turned back toward Clark.

"No?" he said, scanning the computer screen once more.

"All right, yes!" Belle colored and paced behind her chair. "I was in college trying to make a little extra cash to pay for classes and I played some pool at the local watering hole. No one expects a library sciences major to be a player, so I made good money. One night I was playing this woman and she accused me of hustling. Can you believe that? Do you know how many books I had to read on billiards to get that good? I won the game fair and square. She refused to honor her bet and picked a fight with me. I punched her and kind of broke her nose. I was very young. It was a mistake; a moment of weakness."

"That's terrible," Clark agreed solemnly. "I hate misunderstandings."

"You do?" Belle felt a little better. Maybe this minor indiscretion wasn't going to be a problem after all.

"Sure." Agent Clark cleared his throat. "Here's the problem: we just received this statement from a Sergeant Fatigué at the U.S. Embassy. It says here you were once convicted of assault by a Zelena Greene."

"Is defending my honor against a lying, cheated harpy really considered assault?" Belle reasoned. "It was just the one time and I did apologize. I even paid her medical bills."

"Look, the point is that you didn't include this information in your application for Canadian citizenship. Paragraph 12, article 7."

Belle nodded helplessly. At the time, withholding those details had seemed like a really good idea. Pool playing, whiskey drinking, smart mouthed Belle was all in the past. She'd nearly forgotten that rebellious period in her life ever existed. More importantly, Victor didn't know that person and she didn't want him to.

"This is the part where I tell you that your request for a new residence visa has been denied," Clark said, finality in his tone. "I'm sorry, Miss French. You're welcome to reapply in 60 days."

"Sixty days? 60 days? Agent Clark, I don't have 60 days!" Belle wailed.

"Have a good afternoon, Miss French," he said kindly but dismissively, handing her an unopened box of issues. "I'm truly am very sorry."

Bewildered, Belle left the Canadian Embassy clutching her strange consolation prize. Tears welled up in her eyes, threatening to spill, but she wasn't ready to give up. Not yet. She'd been delayed but she hadn't been thwarted. Making a sudden decision to return to Victor's hotel, she wiped her eyes and plastered on a hopeful smile. Ariel had said Victor and was going to the south of France to meet his new girlfriend's parents. All Belle had to do was find out where he was heading and when.

* * *

Luc was waiting for her in the marble archway just outside the door. "Cherie, how did it go?" he asked, taking a drag of his cigarette.

"No luck," Belle replied, easing the box of tissues from Agent Clark into her bag. "I can reapply in 60 days. Let's go back to the Hotel du Louvre. I want to talk to that concierge again."

Grinding the butt of his half-smoked cigarette beneath his toe, Luc gave her a questioning look.

"Don't ask," she shrugged. "Anyway, it's my turn to ask the questions. Who was that woman you were talking to across the street?"

"Pardon?" Luc scratched his head, looking puzzled.

"I saw you talking to someone. Beautiful brunette. Dark eyes. Red lips," she described. Then Belle pulled up short as they walked by a gambling hall. A small gaggle of scantily clad prostitutes sauntered by, smiling and winking at Luc. A few of them even skimmed their manicured hands across his chest and whispering invitations in his ear.

Smiling broadly, he nodded and accepted their affectionate pats, acknowledging each woman and pausing to speak to some of them in rapid-fire French. Belle watched in amazement as he charmed them all just by existing. Not a single one of them even glanced her way.

"I see how far you'd go for the love of your life," Belle snorted in disgust as the last call girl passed by, wriggling her rear end.

"Oh, please," he scoffed. "I'm finished with women."

"Maybe you haven't found the right one," she needled peevishly. Those women had been falling all over him and he was blithely unaffected. Remorse for her attitude ate at her conscience as she recollected the closetful of small outfits in the spare bedroom at his flat. Luc had a son, so evidently at one point there had been a woman. Had she hurt him so terribly?

"I have found plenty of them," he retorted, stuffing his hands in his pockets and walking ahead.

He had told her on the airplane that she was 'dreaming of life rather than living it.' Trailing behind him, Belle wondered if his accusations were more about his own experiences than they were about hers . "Perhaps something happened?" she probed gently, "that has soured you on love and relationships? It sounds like you might be afraid of commitment."

Stone-faced, he whipped around to look at her, eyes so black and fierce with warning that she shrank back as he spoke through clenched teeth. "I'm not afraid of anything."

* * *

"You know how this works, don't you, Jones?" Detective David Nolan crossed his arms over his chest and pinned the gigolo with a hard stare. "If the little fish is to survive, he must tell the fisherman where the big fish are."

"Forget it. I'm no rat." Jones shook his head, refusing to give any information to the tall, charming police officer.

David smiled ruefully. "You're mixing metaphors, my friend. Who buys the passports?"

After months of tracking his activities, David and his partner Detective Tatiana "Tink" Bell had arrested Jones for loitering in the Hotel du Louvre—it was the perfect opportunity to pick him up for questioning. Now the crook and the two officers were ensconced in the hotel's back office, Jones seated behind the desk while Tink barred the door. David sat on the edge of the desk facing Jones, framed by a large one-way window. The opening appeared as a mirror to the guests, but offered the workers inside a clear view of the front desk and a large portion of the lobby. Surreptitiously, Jones took advantage of his unique vantage point to study the comings and goings of the hotel's guests, visitors, and staff.

"I'm losing patience, Jones," David warned as the interrogation wore on. He'd grilled the con man for 40 minutes and received nothing for his trouble but a series of oaths, grunts, and one-word answers.

None of their other threats had worked and now was time to for David and Tink to reveal their secret weapon. "Tink, is Detective Horder on duty today?" David asked slowly, his gaze not wavering from Jones' horrified expression.

"I believe he is," Tink replied, smirking. "He's on the evening shift. In fact, he should be rolling into headquarters right about now." Horder was notorious among Paris crime rings for being ruthless; he took great pleasure in inflicting pain like no other inspector in the city.

"Perhaps, Mr. Jones, you would prefer to accompany us to the station to be questioned by Detective Horder. Though I can assure you, " David cracked his knuckles, "your treatment downtown won't be nearly as pleasant."

Jones blanched, swallowing audibly. Swiveling slightly in his chair, he caught a glimpse of Luc d'Or and his American friend entering the hotel. Jackpot. "Now that you mention it, a big fish did just return from the United States."

"Oui?" David pressed, pleased that the other man was finally ready to talk.

"Luc d'Or. Your friend, right?" Jones watched David for a reaction.

"Mais oui," David replied pensively, remembering Luc's odd fidgeting and rush to return to the city at brunch the other morning.

"When you see him, ask him about a stolen necklace," Jones suggested, gesturing toward the one-way mirror. "He won't be hard to find; have a look for yourselves."

* * *

Belle approached the hotel's concierge station with a sullen Luc in tow. Oh, phenomenal! It was the same wild-haired snooty concierge she had dealt with yesterday, guarding the desk like a clownish bloodhound. Today he was wearing an enormous top hat and the tails on his velvet jacket were ridiculously long. Belle inhaled deeply and gathered her courage. This time she was going to be prepared.

"Hello," she offered politely, catching his eye. "It's me again. Belle French."

"Welcome back, Madam, to the Hotel du Lourve," Jefferson greeted, irony lacing every word.

Belle chuckled gravely. "Really, it's amazing how you do that. The words come out, 'welcome back,' but the meaning is completely different. Is that a French thing or a concierge thing?"

"As madam wishes," he said coolly, brushing some imaginary lint from the arm of his suit.

"Ah, there it is again. Tell me something," she requested, her voice swelling in volume. "Perhaps we have a language barrier because I don't understand. Do you enjoy being that rude?"

He looked at her blankly.

"Because when you treat me that way, it makes me angry. Really, really angry!" she shouted, repeatedly slamming the service bell, her face awash in fury.

Gulping, Jefferson whisked the bell away and said meekly, "Thank you, Madam, for the fascinating lesson in our cultural differences. I don't believe it would betray my duty now to inform you that your fiancé and his _friend_ are no longer our guests."

"Well, whose guests would they be now?" Belle demanded.

"The Majestic Barriere will have that happy privilege when they arrive in Cannes tomorrow. He laughed nervously. "Perhaps Madam would care to catch the last train out of Paris tonight? I could arrange for transportation immediately."

"Yes, thank you." Triumphant, Belle turned to Luc, who had remained uncharacteristically silent throughout her exchange with the snobbish concierge. "See, I do know how to take care of myself," she said proudly to…no one at all. "Luc? Luc?" Belle called, scanning the lobby for any sign of her maddening companion.

Not for the first time, the concierge looked at her oddly. "Madam?" He sounded frightened. "Who are you talking to?"

He thought she was a raving lunatic. Belle shrugged; may as well enjoy his discomfort for all it was worth.

"The voices," Belle whispered eerily, sending her eyebrows into her hairline. She'd been abandoned yet again. Next time she saw Luc d'Or, (if she ever decided to speak to him again) she would demand a damn strong explanation for these repeated disappearing acts.

"Voices?" Jefferson scrambled to pick up the phone, hands quaking. "I will call you a taxi right now, Madam."

###

 _Up Next:_ Belle follows Victor to Cannes, Luc follows Belle, and Detective Nolan follows Luc.


	10. The Road to Cannes

_"We'll always have Paris." – Howard Koch_

"Pardon my intrusion, Mademoiselle." Startled by a tap on her shoulder, Belle stopped scanning the room for Luc and whirled around, coming face-to-face with a tall, blonde man with discerning blue eyes.

"I'm sorry. I didn't mean to frighten you," he said. "I'm Inspector Nolan." He flashed a badge and waved his mobile phone in front of her face, the screen bearing a smiling image of Luc wearing a three-piece suit. "Do you know this man?"

Pretending to study the photo, Belle frowned, looking down at the picture and back at the detective. "No," she lied, "I've never seen him before in my life. Who is he?" Belle glared daggers at the open-mouthed concierge, daring him to contradict her.

"I'll just see about your taxi, Madam," Jefferson gulped, scurrying away.

"His name is Luc d'Or. You are certain you haven't seen him?" the detective pressed.

Did she detect a hopeful note in the inspector's voice? She couldn't pinpoint the reason for her suspicion, but it seemed as though he wanted to be wrong. "Absolutely," she verified.

"It's just that you appear to be looking for someone," he observed, peering over her shoulder.

Belle's breath caught in her throat, and she fixed her gaze on the front of his shirt as the detective glanced around the hotel lobby, his well-trained eyes seeking out all the dark corners and camouflaged spaces. The blonde pixie-like creature accompanying him scrutinized Belle, patting the handcuffs attached to her belt in a silent warning.

"Oh, yes. I'm looking for my fiancé," Belle recovered. "I can't imagine where he's gone," she giggled, pretending to look around again.

She bristled at the intimidating persistence of the two officers, but she was equally surprised by how readily she had lied on Luc's behalf. Yes, she was perturbed by yet another of his inexplicable disappearances, but that was hardly grounds for turning him over to the authorities. He had lied and manipulated her to smuggle a plant into the country, but his purposes for doing so—setting up a new vineyard—seemed honorable. Besides, she reasoned, it was impossible to know what was in a person's heart until you truly knew them.

"Madam," Jefferson Millner was at her elbow once more, "your car is waiting to take you to Gare du Nord for your train." The wild-eyed concierge seemed in a desperate hurry to usher Belle out the door of his hotel, and out of Paris for that matter.

"My car is waiting," she repeated to the detective duo, shouldering her knapsack. "Will there be anything else?"

The male inspector forced a smile, handing her a card with a phone number scrawled on the back. "If you do see him, please give me a call. I wish you pleasant travels."

"Thank you," she edged away, relieved that the brief interrogation had ended. "I'm certain I won't see him, but if I do, I'll let you know." Belle pocketed the card and followed the concierge to the waiting taxi.

David and Tink watched as Belle ducked into the backseat of the taxi, gestured to the driver, and opened a book to settle in for her 45-minute ride to Gare du Nord. "Something's not right. Didn't she just say she was looking for her fiancé?" Tink tugged on her ponytail. "Why is she taking a car to the train station alone?"

"Day trip?" David suggested blithely. "There's a large medical conference in the city and physicians from all over the world are staying at this hotel."

Tink shook her head. "The conference ended yesterday. David, you're thinking like a man. They're engaged. If Mademoiselle French was leaving, even for a short trip, she would wait for her fiancé. Kiss him goodbye."

"Merde," David swore. He pinched the bridge of his nose and nodded. "You're right. We'll follow her."

* * *

An hour after Belle's car pulled away with David and Tink in pursuit, Ariel Whale alighted from a taxi of her own, stilettos clattering on the sidewalk as she entered the Hotel du Louvre and made a beeline for the reception area.

"Bonjour," she greeted the front desk attendant. "I'm hoping you can help me find someone."

"La souer." The short, bearded clerk was brusque.

Ariel blinked at him. "Did you just call me sister?"

A lanky, attractive gentleman clad in maroon velvet suit and a top hat bounded over to interrupt. "My apologies, Madam. Although it is against our policy to speak with such familiarity to our guests, Leroy calls every woman he meets 'sister.'' He glowered at the clerk and waved him away. "Allow me to welcome you to the Hotel du Louvre. I am the concierge. How may I be of service?"

"Grumpy, isn't he?" Ariel observed as the other man stomped away in a huff, then turned her attention back to the concierge. "I'm looking for someone. Petite, curly brown hair, huge blue eyes, lost her luggage but is still probably walking around with a book in her hands. Does that sound familiar?"

"Oh, dear God." He blanched, his features frantic as he canvassed the lobby. "Has she returned?"

"Let's try this again," Ariel suggested, although she had to admit that what this guy lacked in wits he certainly made up for in the looks department. "If I knew where she was, I wouldn't be asking you."

"C'est vrai. That's true." Relaxing, he offered a winsome smile, his silvery grey eyes crinkling at the corners. "Forgive me for not introducing myself, Madam. I am Jefferson Millner. Your friend is Mademoiselle French, yes?"

"That's right." Ariel nodded.

"She is on her way to Cannes even as we speak," he gestured toward the door. "I'm so sorry, but I'm afraid you have missed the last train of the evening."

"You're kidding," Ariel moaned, her green eyes clouding with frustration. Then through gritted teeth she asked, "What about Victor Whale? Is he still here?"

"A man in high demand," the concierge murmured. "Alas, no. Monsieur Whale and his, ah, _companion_ took an afternoon flight to the south of France. I made the arrangements myself," he volunteered.

"Bastard," she muttered.

"Sorry?" he quirked a brow.

"Not you," she amended quickly. "I was talking about Victor, my brother."

"Fear not, Mademoiselle," he soothed with a courteous tip of his tall brown hat. "There will be another train tomorrow. You can locate your friend and your frère then. And, if you will permit me, it would give me great pleasure to introduce you to one of Paris's finest restaurants." He bowed, eyes twinkling.

Ariel flushed with pleasure to receive a dinner invitation from such a handsome, albeit unusual, Frenchman. Her long-time relationship with her long-distance boyfriend Eric was at a standstill, leaving Ariel with a vague sense of dissatisfaction. With so many miles between them, they were almost from different worlds. When Granny had sent her to Paris to rescue Belle, Ariel had sensed that this trip held promise not only for her best friend but for herself as well. "Well, I do have to eat," she agreed, accepting the arm he offered. "Yes, I would be delighted."

* * *

Luc chuckled gravely as he spotted Belle's mass of auburn curls, relief mingling with guilt that he'd evaded his closest friend en route to the train station.

After melting into the shadows outside the hotel, he'd observed David and his partner questioning her, expecting the two officers to come charging after him demanding to know the whereabouts of his stolen vine.

It hadn't happened.

Instead, they had tailed Belle in an unmarked black car and Luc had traveled behind both parties at a safe distance. He'd known that outwitting David twice in one afternoon would not be easy, but he'd needed to catch Belle and retrieve his necklace before she departed Paris—his future depended upon it.

With luck, the detectives had been deterred by a gaggle of elementary school children whose bus had broken down on the highway, giving Luc and an unwitting Belle a considerable head start.

Now, standing a scant 10 feet from Belle as she waited at the ticket window, his chance to reclaim the necklace in his grasp, Luc d'Or was losing his nerve. Fingertips tingling, he crept up behind her, eyeballing the knapsack at her feet. With Belle occupied by her purchase, it would be a simple task to snatch the bag and walk away.

Yet after everything she had lost, he couldn't bring himself to take away the little that she had left.

Stalling, he tortured himself, his perverse mind picking at a question until he was raw: After all his broken promises, why hadn't Belle revealed his deceptions to the police?

Biting the inside of his cheek, Luc considered the options. Perhaps it was time to come clean; end the charade. Yes, he would explain the situation, politely ask for the necklace, and be on his way. Belle French would never be implicated in his crimes and she could go back to chasing her fool of a fiancé. Pretend she'd never met a waster like Luc d'Or.

He cringed, disgusted by thoughts that reeked of weakness. No, he had come too far to give up now. Her back was turned, presenting him a clear advantage to slip his hand into the knapsack. Dropping his shoulder, he reached down to lift the bag off the concrete. He could almost…no. Just as he grazed the handle she swung around, dangling the bag from her wrist. He shoved his outstretched hand in his pocket, affecting a casual pose.

"You again?" she complained, barely sparing him a glance as she hastening toward the platform.

He smirked at her frosty reception, falling into step beside her. "Cherie, you wound me." Feigning contrition, he placed a hand over his heart. "I've come to make peace with you."

Nose in the air, she ignored him as she walked past waiting passengers smoking, snacking, and scrolling on phones. He followed, dodging around children clinging to their parents' hands and baggage handlers hefting bundles of luggage on their heads.

Despite the harrowing circumstances, he had to admit he was enjoying their spirited banter. With the rare exception of the Nolan family, few people took it upon themselves to debate with him or voice their displeasure at his actions or attitudes. He'd convinced himself that others shied away because he was an intimidating, egotistical asshole but he alone knew the truth: No one else thought he was worth the bother.

"So, you are still after Victor?" he provoked her, scrambling to continue the conversation. "It is incredible. I admire your persistence. It's so very… _American._ "

"I am not an American," Belle countered, tossing her head. "I am a soon-to-be ex-American Canadian."

"So you are still speaking to me," he said, pleased to have elicited a reaction. "Well, that's a point in my favor. May I help you with your bag?" He ghosted his fingers over hers and she snatched her hand away.

Shifting her knapsack to the other shoulder, Belle increased her pace. "Oh, please." She slanted her eyes at him. "We agreed to be friends, but the truth is you haven't spent sixty seconds with me when you weren't using me or hiding something. What is it you want this time?"

"You're right," he acknowledged. "You helped me to get my vine, and I left you with nothing."

"Twice," she reminded him. "No! Three times. After I lost my bags, at the embassy, then again at the hotel—"

"Oui, oui, I get the point," he chuckled, cutting off another tirade. "But all that ends right now. Belle, I'm turning over a new leaf. All day long I have asked myself what I can do to make it up to you. Consider me at your disposal."

"You come, you go, you promise one thing, you do another. So why should I believe anything you say?" Belle demanded.

"Because what reason do I have to lie now?" he appealed, spotting David and his crew out of the corner of his eye. Shit. He picked up the pace, tugging her arm. "Do I look like the kind of man who—"

"You look like the kind of man who offers a girl a ride and then can't be bothered to give it to her; you look like the kind of man who has whispered conversations on the street with a mysterious woman; you look like the kind of man who puts a plant in a person's bag!" She had stopped in the center of the station to bellow at him, and they stood nose-to-nose as she ticked off each offense on her slender fingers.

"Must you deafen me with your screeching, cherie?" Wincing, he clapped his hands over his ears. David and his team had not yet seen him, but they were edging closer. Damn it. Placing a hand on the curve of her lower back, Luc ushered Belle toward the train. If she recognized David and realized he was trailing them, the game was over. David would confiscate the necklace and any chance he had at claiming the land for his vineyard would be lost. "Can't you yell at me after we board?"

"Why are you going to Cannes?" she asked, perplexed.

"To help you win back Victor," he explained, sneaking another glance over his shoulder as he took her ticket and handed it to the conductor. "Assuming that is what you still want?"

"Yes, of course." Belle was adamant.

"Well then, come along," he coaxed above the whistle signaling the final boarding call. "We'll be departing at any moment."

Guiding Belle up the steps onto the train, he turned back toward the platform, hopping aboard as the train picked up speed, barreling down the track. Halfway across the station David leaned against a wall with his arms crossed over his chest, wearing an enigmatic smile.

Luc shrugged, offering his friend a jaunty wave. "Better luck next time, ami," he murmured.

 _###_

 _Up Next: Luc and Belle make a deal. Belle learns more about Luc's plans._


	11. Secrets

_Though I often looked for one, I finally had to admit that there could be no cure for Paris. – Paula McLain_

"Let's make a deal," Luc suggested, settling into a seat across from Belle. "Since you helped me—"

"Shhh," she hushed, transfixed by the living portrait outside the train window. She wanted to savor this moment. "Look."

Standing tall and proud against the Parisian skyline was, at last, the Eiffel Tower. It was the one piece of the city she'd told Victor she would love to see, yet during her wanderings of the past two days, Belle had not experienced the famed Iron Lady in person. She had come across street sketches, postcards, and miniature models, but those facsimiles paled in comparison to its breathtaking reality.

Pink points of sunlight danced through the tower's airy lattice rivets, graceful and light as a ballerina en pointe. As the fiery, golden orb sank beneath the horizon, the atmosphere glowed with color, dyeing the heavens first orange, then red, then blue, until all that remained was a chalky mauve.

"La vie en rose," Belle whispered into the still, quiet cabin. "Only in Paris where the light is pink does that song actually make sense."

"C'est magnifique, oui?" Luc asked, the note of pride in his voice unmistakable.

Belle gave him a bright smile. "It's stunning."

From beneath lowered lashes, Belle studied her traveling companion. A comfortable silence stretched between them. The man was never still, even at rest, and yet every movement of his body was graceful and precise, never fidgety or clumsy. And those eyes. Intense and bright and unreadable. At the moment they were focused on the passing scenery. Belle wondered what he was thinking.

Luc reached into his breast pocket and sparked a cigarette.

"Hey, hey," she objected, both irritated and grateful for something to say. "This is a nonsmoking compartment."

"Very well," he said, extinguishing the light. "Voila! I stop for you. See, I'm changing, I'm growing. We will help each other."

He tossed her one of those saucy little half-smirks she was coming to know so well. Belle's heart fluttered. She pushed the odd sensation away. "I've had enough of your particular brand of help, thank you very much," she said.

"Vraiment? So you have a plan to get Victor back?" he asked, leaning forward.

"Is that a rhetorical question?"

Belle crossed her arms and looked away. She had no plan. She didn't need a plan. She had true love on her side. All Rosie or Remie or Rubie or whatever the hell her name was had going for her were legs as long as redwoods, hair extensions, and false eyelashes. Nothing would stand between Belle and the man she was going to marry.

"You are going into a battle and you have no strategy? No armor? No bullshit?" he asked, punctuating each question with a wave of his hand.

"I don't need bullshit to get Victor back," Belle said.

"Just a little?" he persuaded, stroking his chin. "It's actually quite useful. For me, bullshit is like breathing."

"Well, that's a surprise."

Those impudent brown eyes ignited with mischief at her comment, and she cursed herself. He seemed to thrive on arguing with her and she'd fallen for it. Again.

Then he said, "Cherie, I am offering to do you a favor. I will stay; I will help you with Victor. Let me do this for you as payback for your help with the vine."

Belle narrowed her eyes. There had to be a catch. With him there always was. "What do you want in return?"

"You've already helped me to get my vine, so that mostly fulfills your part of the bargain." He tented his fingers, eyes glittering.

"Mostly?" she echoed, zeroing in on the word she feared would have her wading out of her depth.

"That's right. My only request is that you never speak of the vine to another soul. In exchange, I will help you win back your Victor. Do we have a deal?"

"How are you going to help me with Victor?" Belle asked. "It doesn't involve anything illegal, does it?"

"So many questions. Leave all the details to me. You may have flown to Paris without your fiancé, but I guarantee you that he'll be at your side when you return to Canada," he promised. "Now," he repeated, "do we have a deal?"

What was the worst that could happen? She wasn't exactly eager to implicate herself as an unwitting accomplice in Luc d'Or's theft and smuggling operation. If she told anyone about the vine—Inspector Nolan, for instance—not only would she lose Victor for good, she could wind up in jail. And Luc? He would be in much more serious trouble. Not that she was worried about him in particular. No, she would protect anyone caught in a similar situation. Everyone deserved a fair chance, and there was no sin or mistake a person couldn't come back from. Perhaps Luc just needed someone to show a little faith in him. And maybe, just maybe, if they spent some time together, she could dissuade him from his life of crime and secrecy.

The small white card in her pocket bearing the police detective's phone number seared her thigh, the mark of guilt, and Belle squirmed in her seat. Luc wasn't the only one keeping secrets. "You have my word," Belle agreed.

"Good," Luc bobbed his head once, then reclined against the seat. "The deal is struck."

* * *

Night fell and it became too dark to see the landscape whizzing by on the train. Bored, Luc pretended not to watch Belle as she alternated between reading a thick novel and staring dreamily at the inside of an antique locket suspended around her neck. What an odd little creature she was. He considered the terms of their agreement. He needed her for the necklace, nothing more, and could have easily retrieved it without making a bargain. But was there any harm in helping her out with her sweetheart? Besides, he rather enjoyed navigating the world through her refreshing perspective. Her tenacity was amusing, as was her steadfast belief in true love.

"Since I lost my phone, this is the only picture I have of Victor," she confided, cutting into his thoughts.

Luc schooled his features into an interested expression, resisting the urge to roll his eyes. "May I see?" he asked. "Please?"

"All right." She held out the locket for his inspection as he sat down beside her.

"How did you meet the famous Victor?"

"I was wasting away at my father's florist shop in Storybrooke, Maine, when I had the opportunity to move to Toronto to reorganize their city library system. The first year, I developed a library benefit and invited Victor to be the emcee—he's a very big name in Toronto. As well as being a very talented surgeon, he also hosts his own medical show, Bedside Manner with Doctor Whale. You probably don't know it here, but it's very popular in Canada," she said. "His slogan is 'The best side effect is love.'"

"Charming." Her wistful expression made him nauseated. Best side effect indeed. He inspected the photo. "You know, his chin looks a little bit weak."

"No, it doesn't." Belle tried to yank the locket out of his grasp. "Do you want to hear our story or not?"

"I'm sorry. Please." He motioned for her to continue. "Except, there is something in his eyes. Vain. It is a word, non?"

"It is a word," Belle frowned at Victor. "He has beautiful eyes."

"Oui, and he knows it. You can see it in his smile. Not even a smile, a smirk. It is a word?"

"Shut up," Belle said. "Is it a word?"

"Two words, non?" He chuckled.

"Might it be possible for you to go five minutes without insulting my fiancé?" Belle asked, finally succeeding in wrenching the locket out of his grasp.

"Okay, okay." He grinned like the devil, holding up his hands in playful surrender. "Go on with your tale."

"We met during the benefit season and, I just had this feeling about him. Anyway, we were thrown together a lot during the planning process, then we started dating, and now here we are."

"Here you are," he deadpanned, amazed by her naiveté. She actually thought she was still in this relationship.

"You've honestly never had that feeling about anyone ever in your whole life?" Belle asked, pivoting toward him.

"If I did, I would not admit it. Look where it has gotten you." What was she doing going after this conceited, cheating cad?

Luc certainly wouldn't call himself a man of scruples, but even he had his boundaries. And anyone who so poorly treated a woman he claimed to love did not deserve her devotion. He'd been on the receiving end of such treachery before and he couldn't stand to see this trusting, impressionable woman go through what he'd endured. Not that he would admit that, either.

"Why are you chasing after him?" He shook his head. "Think about what he's done to you."

"Because I love him!" She pulled away and hugged her knapsack to her chest.

"Oui, l'amour." He drew out the phrase. "It makes us sick, haunts our dreams, destroys our days. Love has killed more than any disease."

"How poetic. Trying to weasel out of our deal already?"

"Cherie." He barked a humorless laugh. "I don't break deals. And no one breaks deals with me." He softened his tone, a concession to her fragility. "But if I had a magical potion to make you fall out of love with him? I would give it to you if only to save you this embarrassment."

"I'm afraid." She whispered the admission as though she hadn't heard him, jaw clenched as if she couldn't bear to give away the words. "I'm afraid that if Victor doesn't come back it will hurt so much that I'll just shrivel up and never be able to love anyone ever again. I'll lose…everything."

"Not everything. Consider the stars in the sky, cherie," he pointed at the ceiling. "They number in the millions, billions. You will find other twinkling lights to call your own."

"It's not the same. I want the star I have." Her eyes welled up with tears and she sidled away from him and turned toward the window.

In the darkened cabin he could see her dismal expression reflected in the glass, her lovely face crumpled in anguish. Words of comfort began to flow from his lips, and no one was more surprised than he to hear those gentle murmurs. The romance in his soul had died long ago.

"You say that now, but after a time, you would forget," he soothed.

Her chin wobbled as he spoke, proof that she was listening.

"Yes, first you would forget his chin, and then his hair, and after a while you would struggle to remember the exact color of his eyes and the taste of his kiss. And one bright day you will wake up and realize that he's gone—his voice, his smell, his face. He will have left you. And then you can begin again."

She shuddered, drawing her knees up into her chest and hugging her legs, cocooning herself inside her sweater. "Please," she sniffled. "Just leave me alone."

* * *

An hour later, Luc had retreated to his side of the compartment. Belle was lying down across the seats, drifting in and out of sleep. The self-help book she had been reading had collapsed on her chest, and she'd moved her knapsack beneath her head, using it as a pillow.

Tense, he waited for the rocking train to lull her into a deeper slumber, hoping for a chance to pocket the necklace. After she had been resting a while he crept closer, seizing his opportunity. Shifting in her sleep, she startled, sitting up. Cursing inwardly, he pretended to stretch, rotating his arms in small circles. She gave him a strange look before her eyes closed again, and she slid back into sleep with her head still cushioned by her bag.

And he waited.

At last she curled on her side and emitted soft snores, her arm thrown across her forehead like a child. Luc smiled a bit, her position evoking bittersweet memories of watching Baelfire sleep when he'd been a very small boy. Her face was serene, her breathing deep and even. She was the very picture of trust, innocence, and vulnerability, and he felt another twinge of guilt for what he was about to do.

Venturing across the small, dim compartment, he attempted to sneak into her knapsack again.

With practiced ease, he shifted her arm down to her side, the limb soft and pliable as she slept. Crouching beside her makeshift bed, he draped his other arm around her shoulder as his fingers combed the bag for his necklace. She moved her head back, exposing the ivory column of her throat. Warm brown curls rested against his arm and tickled his whiskered cheek, wedging him against the seat and the cool metal wall of the train.

Trapped, he stopped searching the bag, impatient for her to retreat, but she snuggled closer, sliding her arm across her breasts and stretching it across his shoulder as she shifted even nearer. He stiffened. Why could he not retrieve the necklace and be done with it? But if he pulled away now, he would risk waking her up, and she would want to know what he was doing sitting on the floor with his arm slung about her shoulder.

In her sleep, Belle nuzzled his throat and moaned, rubbing her hand along the back of his neck and through his hair. The unconscious caress sent a thousand pinpricks of awareness shooting through his body. Her head was on his shoulder now, her nose grazing his chin, and he was a still as a stone, disturbed by how pleasant the sensation of her nearness was.

"Victor," she breathed against his face, her mouth smelling of mint and spun sugar.

"Mmmhmmm," he agreed, playing along with her dream as she tugged on his hair, bringing his head closer.

With aching slowness, Belle brushed her lips against his. Her mouth was hot and full of secrets, her tongue both sizzling and silken as she sought entrance. The necklace forgotten, Luc slammed his eyes shut, parting his lips as she quested and explored. She tasted like sunshine and rose petals and home. He traced the moist recesses of her mouth with his tongue as he pressed his torso against her chest, deepening the kiss. Her hands fisted in his hair, plunging against his scalp, scraping his head with her engagement ring. Reminding him that she still believed herself pledged to another.

As abruptly as it began, the kiss ended, and Belle smiled against his lips, looking at him with vague, unfocused eyes. Filled with desire, those cornflower blue orbs had darkened to cobalt and he swallowed thickly, wanting to kiss her again.

Did she realize it was he, Luc, that she was embracing?

She pulled away with a sigh, trailing her arm across his heaving chest as she left him. Her eyes were closed as she rolled onto her back, her breathing neat and even once more. Luc's heart lurched, a mixture of disappointment and relief warring for dominance.

Trembling, he slunk back across the compartment and sank onto the floor. He raked shaking fingers through his hair and stared at a dark blemish on the carpet. Stained. Just like his heart.

What the hell was he supposed to do now?

###

 _Up Next: Luc grapples with the kiss. With their fragile agreement between them, Belle and Luc take a detour to Luc's childhood home._


	12. Home, Sweet Home

_"How can you govern a country which has 246 varieties of cheese?" – Charles de Gaulle  
_  
Belle sank her teeth into a creamy chunk of brie and baguette, the crackle of the crust contrasting with the smooth, mellow tang of the cheese. Not for the first time this morning, she regretted not being a more adventurous eater. Lactose intolerance be damned—this cheese was heavenly. The French knew their food, that much was certain. What would Granny say if she could see her now? Sighing in satisfaction, she sipped her tea and savored another bite, gazing out the window at the countryside.

The scenery was pastoral and charming, as much a feast for the senses as the food before her. Lush vineyards, plump fruit trees, and sleek goats and cows grazing in expansive emerald fields delighted her eyes. Was there a more picturesque way to greet the day? On top of her amazing breakfast, she'd had the most intoxicating dream last night, leaving her refreshed and renewed. This trip was on an upswing—Belle could feel it. Soon she would be in Cannes and have her say with Victor. They would navigate this bump in the road. Yes, everything was going to be just fine.

Raising her head from her cheese-laden smorgasbord, she saw Luc stumble into the dining car, eyes downcast and bleary. "Hey." She smiled sympathetically. "You don't look like you slept very well."

"I'm fine." His mouth twisted like he had bit into a lemon.

Overlooking the lie, she slid the platter of cheese and bread toward him. "Are you hungry?"

"Non, merci," he said, sinking onto the bench across from her. Hailing the waiter, he brusquely ordered coffee and lit a cigarette.

"I'm famished." She ripped another section of the baguette and smeared it with some herbed goat chevre. "I can't seem to get enough of this cheese, and I haven't touched this stuff in years." Belle tasted an incredible Roquefort, groaning in bliss as the morsel melted on her tongue. "Are you sure you won't have any?"

His face impassive, he downed his thick, black coffee in one scalding gulp.

"Look at this scenery! Isn't it beautiful here?" Belle pointed out the window, eager to share the lovely morning with another person, even if said person was currently staring at her like she had two heads. Victor worked such long hours at the hospital that they rarely shared a leisurely breakfast and never in such a glorious setting.

"Maybe it's the soothing rhythm of the train, but I had the best night's sleep I've had in a long time. For some reason, I feel incredibly refreshed. I had this dream which I can't really remember but it was wonderful. Did you ever have a dream that is just delicious and you wake up feeling all transformed?"

"How nice for you," he muttered.

Magnanimous in her fine mood, she decided to ignore Luc's grunts and groans. "Did you know that there are more than 450 official government cheeses in this country?" She flipped through a guidebook on France as she talked, pointing to a page. "Some sources claim the varieties number over 1,000. Don't you think that's incredible? To come up with more than 1,000 ways of classifying what is essentially a bacterial process?"

He snorted. "You would prefer those slimy orange slices manufactured in a factory? Perfect little squares?" He mimicked the shape in the air with his hands. "Perhaps we can find you some Wonder Bread to accompany your one-size-fits all cheese!"

"There's no reason to get so huffy. I'm saying I like the cheese!" Goodness he was in a foul humor. Here she was trying to enjoy a peaceful breakfast in a beautiful setting and share her excitement over the cheese and he was barking at her like she'd declared war on the culture.

In fact, the opposite was true. Now that she had tasted some of the pleasantries France had to offer, she had to admit it wasn't all bad. This country was beginning to grow on her. "It really is beautiful here. We're traveling through Auvergne now, aren't we?" she asked, curious about the surroundings.

He made a muffled, dismissive sound and blew smoke out of his nostrils like a bull.

"What's that face? You don't think it's beautiful here?" She waved a wedge of comté at the window. "You don't think this is beautiful?"

He mumbled something incoherent and Belle leaned in closer.

"Sorry, what did you say?"

"I grew up here." Those four words sounded more like a death sentence than an upbringing.

"You're kidding." Belle wrinkled her nose, unable to resist the playful barb. "But this is so beautiful. So charming."

"Oui, it was too beautiful for me; I had to leave." The dour expression was back.

A giggle escaped her mouth and she noticed his eyes widen. Was he surprised she found his wry sense of humor funny? "Tell me about your hometown," she asked, determined to talk him out of his bad mood.

"What do you want to know?"

"Everything." She closed her book and propped her chin up with her hands, giving him her full attention.

"All right." He launched into a description of the landscape and the industries, the ancient oak forest that was Europe's largest, and the extinct volcanoes that contributed to the local wines' flavor and character.

Replete, she pushed her cheese plate away and smiled encouragingly as he spoke. Belle loved to learn and Luc was a fascinating, animated teacher—as passionate about the French wine country as he was knowledgeable. He moved his large hands continually as he spoke, pointing out the sights and the animals that dotted the countryside.

Belle belched loudly, the sound an awkward interruption to the lesson. Hurriedly, she took a sip of water. Her tongue felt like a tuft of cotton. She splayed her hands across her churning stomach, doubling over as her belly cramped. Nausea washed over her and her skin crackled with heat. Rinds and remnants of cheese on the almost-empty plate stared at her in accusation.

"Oh, God," she moaned.

"What's the matter, cherie?"

"I'm gonna die." She burped again.

"What? The cheese?" Luc lifted a piece of camembert and took a bite. "It's good."

"No, it's not. It's not good at all! Please, stop the rocking!" She screwed her eyes shut, bracing her hand on the wall. What had she been thinking? It had been years since she'd had so much of a shred of cheese and she felt like she'd eaten the equivalent of a daily pizza shop delivery of the stuff. Desperate to disappear, she curled into a ball. How much longer would it be until the train stopped?

"I thought you liked the rocking. You said it was peaceful. Here, look at the beautiful scenery. Remember, the goats, the cows?"

Why was he arguing with her? "No, not the cows." Belle heard herself whine piteously.

"Not the cows?" he echoed.

"I just ate that cow." The mental imagery was too overwhelming and Belle rushed out of the dining car, gaining the restroom just in time before losing her entire breakfast.

* * *

Luc paced outside the station restroom, waiting for Belle. Flustered, he kicked the dirt with his boot and glanced again at his watch. She'd run from the train restroom straight into this one, her face white and the tiny lines around her eyes tight with pain. He was going to send the next woman who exited back inside to make sure she was all right. If that plan failed, he was going after her himself. And then what? He felt paralyzed, memories of the kiss they'd shared plaguing his every step.

He'd slept sitting up, the night a miserable, jumbled limbo between wakefulness and rest. Since the kiss, every time he looked at Belle, guilt warred with attraction. She was hyper-focused on restoring her relationship with Victor. Also, she was completely insane. As for him? He had a host of issues to work through that made him a bad prospect: a necklace to sell so he could acquire his vineyard, a score to settle with his father, and, finally, a 12-year-old son to make amends to.

But she'd kissed him. Not Victor, _him_. Yet did she remember? Did she have even the slightest idea? No, she just sat there all morning prattling on about cheese and cows and dreams. Cajoling him to talk about his hometown. Laughing at his jokes. _No one_ laughed at his jokes. He rubbed a hand over his face and groaned. He didn't know whether to be relieved or insulted.

As he patrolled the ladies' room door, the eagle-eyed stationmaster peppered him with questions, trying to guess his name. The man rubbed his fingers together, itching to pick up the black rotary telephone attached to the stone wall of the station. Luc's birthplace was tiny, backward, and technologically behind the times by at least 20 years. He scowled, turning up his collar to hide his profile.

"Jacques Taranne?" the old fellow asked. "Phillipe Cazal? Michel Desbordes?"

Luc grimaced as the guessing game continued. Names had power. If this old man sussed out his identity, he'd soon be on the telephone to everyone in the village. Including his father. And he was not yet ready to announce his return to Malcolm d'Or.

"Je vous connait. I know you." The old man wagged a finger.

"You don't know me, Pops. Leave me alone, s'il vous plaît?"

At last Belle reappeared, rescuing him from strangling this doddering old fool. She shuffled out of the restroom and paused in the doorway, sunglasses shielding her eyes from the light.

"You are feeling better?" he asked, relieved to see her at least semi-upright.

"Better," she said, wincing with each ginger step. "When's the next train?"

"Not for two more hours," he said, patting the spot on the bench beside him. "Why don't you sit here and rest?" His suggestion wasn't entirely altruistic. The fewer people he came in contact with, the less likely he was to be recognized.

Belle eased onto the bench and sat for a moment or two, then struggled to her feet. "I need to walk."

"That's a bad idea," he said, pulling a face. "You rest; we'll wait for the train. Why don't you read?"

"Walking makes me feel better. And it's so beautiful here! I want to explore." She tugged on his hand, a silent plea to join her.

Exhaling noisily, he complied and snuck another look around. The stationmaster's beady little eyes were on him again. "Luc d'Or! Voila!" he crowed in triumph, picking up the telephone.

Shit.

Well there was nothing to be done about it now. He accompanied Belle down the cobblestone street, passing under caramel-colored stone archways covered in ivy and pastel-toned window boxes crowded with peonies.

"How long since you've been home?" she asked, bobbing into a clothing boutique.

"About four years."

"Family troubles?" she asked, trailing her hand across a display of flouncy tops before moving to a rack of denim capri pants.

"I'd rather not discuss it," he said, stiffening. Following her example, he chose a light grey linen suit and a crisp white shirt, and ducked into a dressing room. He preferred his suits tailored or bespoke, but this would do in a pinch.

He heard her voice in the dressing room next door, continuing to pry. "A healthy person is one who expresses what's bothering him. Express, not repress."

Luc snickered at her instructions. "If that's true, cherie, you are undoubtedly one of the healthiest people in the world."

"I'm honest about my troubles and failures as well as my hopes and dreams," she said, her voice sounding muffled as she tried on clothes. "A little return trust would not be out of line. I've lain my life out like an open book for your inspection, while you share nothing."

"Perhaps that's because your love life has occupied so much of our time and attention." He groused as he buttoned his new pants.

Seeming unperturbed by his sarcasm, she threw open his dressing room door, a bundle of clothing over her arm. "When you don't confide in someone, your troubles worm their way into every part of your life. They fester and rot and before you know it, there's a hole in your heart."

"Is that the end of your lecture, or were you just hoping to catch me naked?" She stared at his half-exposed chest, her saucer-wide eyes and reddened face betraying her. Did she like what she saw, or was she, God forbid, repulsed by his appearance? He winked, a cheap attempt to cover his own discomfort.

"Hardly." She stuck her nose in the air as he finished buttoning his shirt and pulled on his jacket.

"Hardly the end of the lecture? I figured as much." He laughed at her mottled cheeks. "There's only one thing missing from my life," he said, laying his selections on the table at the register. "Clean clothes. You should get some, too." He deposited the outfit she had tried on alongside his and took out a fat stack of cash.

"Where did you get all that money?" Belle asked.

"I spun it out of straw," he said, then turned his attention to charming the cashier, who fawned over him in return and insisted on offering him a discount for no reason whatsoever.

With satisfaction he noted the hard set of Belle's chin as they exited the shop and crossed the square. Good. She needed a reminder of who had the upper hand. Because it wasn't her. It wasn't.

* * *

Feeling cleaner, brighter, and more attractive than she had in days in her new outfit, Belle sat at a small café table with Luc, nursing a bottle of Evian. Luc was immaculate in a grey linen suit that hugged his body in all the right places. He looked like an elegant French winemaker, which, Belle realized, was exactly what he was. Or had been. But he wouldn't tell her anything of value so she skirted the issue, staying with safe topics like the weather, the quality of the soil, the population of the village. It had been extraordinarily kind of him to buy her new clothing. It was also maddening—the way he snapped and snarled one moment and behaved with thoughtful courtesy the next.

As they chattered, a silver convertible careened into the square, screeching to a halt. The driver blared the horn, eyes ablaze with angry accusation. On instinct, Belle stood up, somehow knowing that the driver of this car was here to see Luc.

Jostled by gathering crowd, Belle watched as the driver, an older, blonder version of Luc, hopped out of the car and approached, fists and jaw clenched in fury.

"Pardonez moi." Excusing himself, Luc was the picture of calm politeness as the other man charged, challenging and beckoning Luc to come forward and fight.

Briefly, the two circled each other like prizefighters entering the ring. Attacking first, the older man punched Luc in the mouth. Staggering, Luc met Belle's gaze briefly. She cringed at the hurt she saw in his whiskey colored eyes. Hurt that had little to do with the blow itself and much to do with the one who had inflicted it. Luc pivoted and slammed his fist into the other man's cheek. He fell, flopping on the ground like a fish out of water.

The brawl had lasted all of sixty seconds, but in those brief moments Belle had gained more insight into Luc d'Or's life than she had in over two days spent in his company.

"Belle French, meet my father, Malcolm d' Or." Luc pointed toward the man moaning on the cobblestones.

" _Papa_ ," he spit out the word like it was something vile, "this is Belle." Swiping a handkerchief across his mouth, Luc waved jauntily to the crowd. "Fini. Au revoir," he said, and sauntered down the street whistling.

Grabbing her belongings, Belle spared one last curious glance for Luc's father (whom no one had bothered to help) and followed, arms pumping as she struggled to keep pace.

She wanted answers. And she was going to get them now.

###

 _Up Next: Belle encounters Luc's family._


	13. Family Ties

_Everything ends this way in France –everything. Weddings, christenings, duels, burials, swindlings, diplomatic affairs –everything is a pretext for a good dinner._ \- Jean Anouilh

Beneath a trellis thick with greenery, the d'Or family gathered at an outdoor table piled high with delicacies. Short ribs in red wine sauce over pasta, broiled fish with tomatoes and olives, ratatouille, and a giant tray laden with grapes, nuts, dried fruits, madeleines, and macarons graced the roughhewn oak table.

Leaning back in his chair, Luc soaked up the atmosphere. The scent of grapes permeating the air; the soothing, melodic undertone of conversation; and the smiles of the children as they welcomed Belle, one of the youngsters presenting her with a pink peony that had been pressed between paper pages.

While he blew lazy smoke rings with his cigarette, he observed Belle as she ate and interacted with his family. Dappled sunbeams caressed her face as she closed her lips around a forkful of eggplant. Her lips. Ever since their kiss, he couldn't stop staring at her mouth.

Beyond this schoolboy infatuation that needed to be crushed like a bug beneath his heel, he was oddly pleased to see her laughing, talking, and eating. Rapt delight illuminated her face as she accepted everything placed before her.

Well, everything except the cheese course.

Luc chuckled under his breath when she slammed her lips together and shook her head, refusing to even touch the platter. But other than her intolerance for fromage, she seemed at home here in the countryside.

It had been four long years since he'd basked in the familiar sensations of home. And although there was great pain and regret, there was also joy. A sense of belonging. This was his home and, no matter how dysfunctional it was, these were still his people.

He focused on ignoring his father, who seethed at the head of the table while he picked at the food on his plate. Through his swollen, bruised nose and black eye, Malcolm d'Or simultaneously glowered at and snubbed his only son. A hot-tempered, stubborn man, he was a notoriously sore loser. Traits that, despite their differences, they still shared. What irony. Apparently environment did win out over genetics.

"She's lovely, darling. I'm impressed." His cousin Cruellina interrupted his brooding and nodded in Belle's direction. "That last one you brought home was a joke." She flicked the ashes off the end of her long, thin cigarette.

"Milah?" He snorted, amused. "Well she _was_ my wife."

Cruellina sniffed in disdain and rolled her eyes at his cousin Ursula. Those two were inseparable and had been practically since birth. Neither one had been a fan of his ex. "No spirit, that one. No stamina. No strength of heart. But this girl? She's got fire," said Cruellina.

"Keep it down, all right?" Luc tamped down a flare of annoyance. "She's impossible enough as it is—I don't need her knowing you're over here extolling her virtues."

"Oh ho! Is she good between the sheets?" Ursula fanned herself, raking Belle over like a piece of freshly grilled filet mignon.

"I wouldn't know," he said, a curt whisper through clenched teeth.

"Really, darling." Cruellina's drawl was thick with disbelief. "Then why do you keep staring at her like she's something good to eat, hmm? Though her lips _are_ a lovely, delicate shade of pink."

"She's a friend. I'm not the least bit interested in her." Those two statements were mostly true.

Ursula raised her eyebrows in challenge. "Since when are women just your friends?"

"Since I met her." Sarcasm seemed to be his only ally in this conversation on the road to nowhere. He rose, cutting his eyes at his cousins. "Excuse-moi. I think I will go join my _friend."_

He approached Belle, who was giggling as she sipped her rosé and chattered with his cousin William. Besotted fool, Luc muttered to himself, noting the adoring look in his young cousin's eyes. William, affectionately known as Scrappy, hung on Belle's every word. While she nursed her drink, the whelp gaped at her as though she'd invented the practice of winemaking.

She was totally unaware of how charming she was, which only served to make her even more alluring. He cozied up next to her and slung a casual arm around the back of her chair. It was a possessive gesture and he knew it, but he couldn't stop himself. He flashed William an annoyed look. Crestfallen, the boy took the hint and scurried away.

Luc searched Belle's face for a reaction but she appeared unfazed by his cousin's disappearance.

"Poor you." She heaved an artificial sigh and toyed with the stem of her glass. "You had to grow up here. The way you acted on the train, I thought you had escaped life in a bordello instead of in a chateau at a charming vineyard. Am I missing something?"

"It's complicated," he allowed, changing the subject. "Are you ready to head back to the train station?"

"Not quite," Belle said. "We have a bit more time before we have to go, don't we? Show me your room."

"Bossy, aren't you?" He smirked and folded his hands behind his head, feigning relaxation. After Ursula and Cruellina's taunting, he was strung tighter than a violin bow. He wondered what mental torture they would devise for him if he and Belle slipped away together.

"Please?" The wench had the audacity to bat her eyelashes at him. "It's not in the dungeon or anything, is it?"

"Very well," he said. What harm could come from showing her four walls and a twin bed? "But I make no promises about the dungeon."

Her earnest blue eyes went wide as saucers.

"That one was a quip, cherie. Come on, then. Bring some fresh wineglasses."

He chose an excellent Cabernet from the collection on the table and Belle picked up two clean glasses. If she was going to charm him into squiring her around the estate, he may as well take advantage of this golden opportunity to get drunk.

* * *

Belle was at a loss for words, a rare event. Whether the situation warranted encouragement, comfort, or scolding, she prided herself on knowing what to say to people and when her comments and questions would be welcomed. But after Luc's unexpected fight with his father, she searched hard for words of solace and came up empty.

After leaving the courtyard near the train station where he'd left his father bruised and bleeding on the ground, Luc had trudged through an abandoned vineyard, swiping at the gnarled branches obstructing his path. His anger was palpable, and Belle had tagged along like a puppy, trying to keep pace.

Even in wild disarray the vineyard they walked in was beautiful, but she took little pleasure in her surroundings. Her attention was focused on the man next to her. Luc's shoulders were slumped as he stared at the ground, his mouth drawn into a taut, thin line. Her mind was a whirlwind of questions, but voicing them would only make matters worse. Instead she'd grabbed his hand and squeezed, a gesture of solidarity and reassurance. She didn't have the first clue what he needed, but that seemed like a good place to start.

For a while, they strolled hand-in-hand, the breeze whistling through the trees and the light crackle of their shoes on the earth the only sounds. Then he'd received call from his cousin Cruellina, demanding he come home for a visit. A short time later, Belle was sitting in the shadow of a chateau partaking in a midday feast with Luc's large and colorful family.

Now she was entering his room, the inner sanctum of his childhood. Even though she had asked, she hadn't expected him to say yes. Luc was a private person—an expert at unveiling the desires and motivations of others while sharing nothing of himself. It surprised her that he was permitting this intimacy.

It was difficult for her to imagine he'd ever been a child at all. The man before her seemed _ancient_ —not in years, but in experience, wisdom, and knowledge of the world. Whenever she thought she was getting a glimpse of the real Luc and beginning to enjoy their fragile friendship, he would twist his lips up in a sardonic smile and taunt her with those know-it-all, seen-everything, bored-with-life eyes. Eyes that made her feel foolish, childish, and out of her depth.

But Luc's room defied all of Belle's expectations, shattering everything she thought she understood about him.

She'd expected posters of scantily clad fashion models, mementos from prostitutes, and collections of shot glasses, but this? This dark, dusty, old-fashioned room revealed the heart of someone both sentimental and sweet. Though his other home in Paris was filled with things, they were artifacts staged for showing rather than personal treasures collected by someone who truly lived there.

Gawking, she gorged her eyes on the array of books plastering two entire walls of the spacious room. Crammed onto the shelves were all manner of treasures: unusual wine bottles, hand-painted pottery, a white and blue porcelain tea set. "This is amazing!" Belle shimmied up the wheeled ladder, exploring the bookcases. Running her hands over the leather covers, she savored the musky, vanilla scent of old books. "There's more books in here than I could ever read."

"Surprised to learn that I am literate, cherie?" He interrupted her perusal with a lopsided smirk.

"Perhaps," she said, laughing. She knew Luc was intelligent and worldly, but she hadn't expected such a vast collection of literature or sentimental trinkets. Belle rolled the ladder over a few feet so she could reach the windows. She climbed higher and began to tug at the dark, heavy coverings blocking out the sun.

"What are you doing now?" The question came from behind her; he was standing at the foot of the ladder, holding it steady. He sounded exasperated, and she turned to flash him an easy smile.

"Opening these," she said. "It's a gorgeous spring day in France; we should let some light in." But no matter how much she yanked and pulled, she couldn't get the curtains to budge.

She felt him watching her grunt and strain and chanced another peek at him, wondering if he was laughing at her expense. But the look on his face was one of curiosity. Finally she abandoned the task and descended the ladder. Time was short and there was more to explore. Another sweep of the room revealed an old-fashioned spinning wheel sitting in the corner.

"Do you spin?" she asked, approaching the contraption.

"In another life, I used to."

His tone was casual, but his stiff posture belied the flippant words.

Belle eased down on the bench behind the wheel and caressed the smooth wooden surface, learning the wheel as it glided beneath her palm. Luc seemed miles away as he rubbed forefinger and thumb together in an unconscious gesture that betrayed his nervousness. She sensed the cord of tension in his spirit. He'd seemed relaxed and carefree at the luncheon with his family, but now he was worried and distant.

Maybe spinning again would help ease him. Crooking a finger, she beckoned him closer. "Will you show me? Please?"

"It's been a long time," he said, looking poised to bolt for the door.

"Oh, you remember what to do," she said, capturing his wrist before he could sidle away.

It was amazing how a place could change a person. Out there in the world, Luc was controlled and self-assured, but in here, he was like a skittish bird, flighty and uncertain.

With a nod of assent, he pulled a stool closer and settled behind her, placing her hands in the proper positions. He started instructing her in the proper use of the wheel, but to Belle the lesson was a jumbled mess of sounds and sensations. Her head grew fuzzy, her vision cloudy, and she grasped at the questions she wanted to ask—about his father, about the fight, about the little boy's outfit in the flat in Paris. But one by one the thoughts in her mind curled up like a scroll. Surely imbibing one too many glasses of the d'Or Vineyard's excellent wine was to blame.

Luc's breath was hot and sweet on her neck, and she inhaled the aromas of plum, cherries, and tannin from the Cabernet he had been sipping. Belle's skin prickled and she felt restless, her limbs as heavy and immovable as the curtains she'd tried to pry open.

Seeking to get comfortable, she leaned backward a bit and arched her neck. That was a mistake. It put her body in direct contact with the lean, hard planes of his torso. Her breath was now coming in gasps, and she turned crimson when she saw the rapid rise and fall of her own chest.

Surrounded by the heat of his body, she felt his quickened heartbeat against her spine. It felt strange to be so close without being able to see him, so she twisted her head, placing her cheek against his tender skin of his neck. Her head fit perfectly under his chin and she bit back a moan.

His hands had dropped to from where they were guiding hers along the wheel to span her waist in a light squeeze.

She couldn't think at all when he was touching her this way and she grasped for equilibrium, blurting, "What happened…between you and your family?"

A lengthy silence stretched between them as she waited, feeling his face press against her hair.

"I'm a difficult man to love." He muttered the words into the shell of her ear, his raspy voice causing gooseflesh to race across her skin.

"That's not an answer," she replied, leaning forward in an attempt to break the spell. His hands left her hips and went back to the wheel, turning it with practiced ease. She watched his fingers work as she asked, "What about the fight with your father? You might feel better if you talk about it."

"He, ah, stole something from me." The reply sounded calm and practiced. He continued to spin the wheel.

"What did he take? That reaction was about more than a few trinkets." She was persisting, she knew, but she was weary of him evading and dodging her while she had spilled out her entire life story. She wanted to know him.

Belle spun about on the bench to look at him, and her heart lurched. His face was wreathed in misery, his eyes trained on the wide floorboards.

His Adam's Apple bobbed and she waited another long, anxious beat before he at last answered in a harsh whisper: "My livelihood. My inheritance. My identity."

She opened her mouth to ask how that was possible, how a father could do that to his son, when a loud crash startled her, and she pitched forward into his arms.

The curtains she had tried to pull open had fallen to the floor in a heap, sending dust particles every which way. Bathed in light, they both squinted at the window, still wrapped in each other's arms. Belle looked again at Luc, seeing a thin sheen of perspiration on his forehead. Was it disquiet over his father or their nearness that caused this reaction?

She didn't have the chance to find out.

Luc disentangled their limbs, stood up, and backed away, leaving Belle feeling oddly bereft at the loss of contact. He stalked toward a large floor mirror in the opposite corner of the room.

Belle met his gaze in the glass. "Luc? How can he do that?" she asked, wincing at the thready raggedness of her own voice.

He laughed cruelly as he looked at himself, and Belle's stomach hurt to see the self-loathing reflected in the depths of his eyes. "It's rather simple, actually. I'm not really his son."

###

 _Up Next: We'll explore Malcolm and Luc's history a bit more in the next chapter._


	14. The King of France

_"Who ought to be the king of France—the person who has the title, or the man who has the power?" – Pepin the Short_

"I don't understand. Malcolm isn't your father?" Belle sank down onto the bed and folded her hands. She was biting her lower lip again, her eyes twin pools of sorrow. No doubt she was regretting ever meeting him on the plane.

He cursed himself for bringing her here. He wanted to beg her forgiveness for dragging her into his messy, complicated life. But the words to an apology wouldn't come.

The charged atmosphere that had formed between them at the spinning wheel had dissipated, replaced by a different kind of tension—a push-pull between silence and revelation. He felt like he was strung upon the wheel, primed to be torn asunder. Part of him wanted to get the truth out in the open, and part of him wanted to ransack her bag for the necklace and run.

He rested his hip against his old desk, toying with an old ledger. He didn't dare meet her concerned gaze, fearful of the pity he might find there.

"I don't understand," she repeated, twisting the hem of her shirt in her fingers, "but I want to. Talk to me. Please?"

How could he begin to explain? It has been four years since he'd learned the truth, yet even now he scarcely understood. For most of his life he had believed Malcolm d'Or, imperfect though he was, to be his flesh and blood. Now Belle was asking him to dig through those painful memories and overturn them, exposing everything he loathed about his life. But she'd also said sharing was cathartic. Perhaps telling someone would make him feel better. But Belle wasn't just someone. She was…special. Patient, understanding, and forgiving. Never had he met a more forgiving person, nor one so willing to see the good in others. Gathering his courage, he dragged in a shaky breath, praying he could get through the story without breaking down.

"My mother…about seven years ago she became very ill. No. I must go further back." Belle bobbed her head, encouraging him to continue. "This vineyard has been in our family for three generations. The Montague family also operates a vineyard not far from here. For as long as I can remember I was pledged to marry their only daughter, Milah Montague. There are many vineyards in France and it's difficult to stay solvent, so after we were born, our parents decided to unite the two families and the land to create a wine empire."

"So it was an arranged marriage?"

He nodded. "I respected Milah, liked her even. But I didn't love her, nor did she love me. I…it was what was expected of me—to be a dutiful son. So we wed. For a little while we hobbled along, but she grew restless, bored with being a vintner's wife. Our son was born and I hoped that would help our marriage, but Milah's troubles ran deeper than that. Living in the country never suited her. Life is simple here, and ever since we were children she'd longed for couture and parties and nightlife.

"I knew she had other lovers, but I was building the business, establishing a name and a reputation. It was easier to ignore her and seek my own fulfillment. I loved working the land. I hoped that if she found distractions and a measure of happiness somewhere else, at least she would be there for our boy. But she wasn't happy being a mother. She'd leave our son with me or with relatives and friends whenever she wanted to get away, which was often. Once she hitchhiked to Paris and didn't return for days. I should have released her to live the life she wanted, but I didn't. She grew to resentful me for it."

Belle started to speak, but he shook his head and continued. Now that he had opened his mouth, he couldn't seem to stem the flow. The words poured out of him like wine gushing from a cask.

"My relationship with my father was never easy. Even though I did all that was expected of me, he was never satisfied. He hated the responsibility of running the vineyard, but he didn't want to give up control, either. He'd take off without warning to Monte Carlo or Paris or London and go on benders, drinking and gambling and visiting prostitutes. He kept several mistresses and never even tried to hide it from my mother or me.

"Seven years ago, my mother was diagnosed with a rare blood cancer. It was a difficult illness with difficult treatment. About three years later, she decided she'd had enough treatment and hospitals. She wanted to spend her last days at home, surrounded by her family. On her deathbed, she told us the truth: Malcolm wasn't my father. She'd been in love with another man—my biological father—but he died in a car accident before she told him she was pregnant. She was heartbroken and alone and afraid."

"I can't imagine." Belle sniffled, her eyes damp with emotion.

"One night she met Malcolm in a bar and they married within a week, a short enough time for her to pass me off as his son. She'd kept the secret for 38 years, but after so much emotional abuse, I think it was her last chance for revenge. Her last chance to make my father suffer for all the ways he wronged her."

"But that decision backfired—on you." Belle's voice was gravely.

"Oui, Malcolm was furious. I was his only heir, now illegitimate. With Mother gone, I bore the full brunt of his wrath. He never relished the role of fatherhood, but after we learned the truth, he cut me off without a thought. Milah was unhappy anyway, and my fall from grace spelled the loss of my inheritance. She ended our marriage on the grounds that I was no long heir to d'Or Vineyards. She was within her rights—the contract between our families was void," he said.

"And your son?"

"My son," he echoed, afraid to say his name. "He was angry with me for allowing our family to fall apart. But he was only eight years old. Too young to grasp all that was happening. He never knew the truth about his mother's affairs. I protected him from that. Maybe that was wrong of me. Looking back, I suppose I believed that a poor mother was better than no mother at all."

"Oh, Luc. I'm so sorry," she said. "You deserve so much better." Unabashed in her sorrow, she wept. Trails of tears snaked down her face, dripping off her chin, but she made no move to wipe them away. Amazed by her guilelessness, he could only stare. That someone cared enough to shed tears for his sake was a wonder. How long had it been since someone had cried for _him_? Not since before Mother had died.

"Belle—" Overwhelmed by her compassion, he started across the room, but an insistent knock at the door stopped him. Luc retreated to his post near the desk. "Enter."

"Are you decent, darlings?" Cruellina turned the handle slowly and poked her head inside like a turtle venturing out of its shell.

"Finally!" She grinned, her eyes pinning Belle to the bed where she was wiping her eyes. If Cruellina noticed their gravitas she did not let on.

"Vraiment, it's lovely to see someone making good use of that bed." She frowned at her cousin. "Luc what are you doing across the room, darling? You can't make love to her from over there. Is this one of this tantric things?"

"Cru!" he said through gritted teeth. Damn his cousin and her ill-timed sexual innuendos. "Did you need something?"

"Uncle sent me to fetch you. He's in his study." She bussed his cheeks and hissed in his ear, "Don't let him push your buttons."

Pulling back, she smiled, hands fluttering at his shoulders. "It was good to see you. I hope you'll not wait another four years before you visit us again. Belle, darling, it's been a pleasure. Come back and see us again, oui?" She winked and turned on her heel, her fur wrap bouncing behind her in time to her quick steps.

"I'm coming with you," Belle said after Cruellina departed. Her chin was tilted in defiance.

"We should get back to the train." He snapped open his gold pocket watch and waved it in her direction. "Focus on why you're in France, cherie. Victor. Or have you forgotten your plans to throw yourself at him and beg him to take you back?" He gave her a nasty smile.

"What?" Her face clouded over. "Why are you being like this?"

Why? Why? _Because I'm a coward, Belle_. But he couldn't say that. He'd revealed far too much already. "That's the kind of man I am, cherie. When faced with a choice between me and everyone else, me wins—every time."

"I don't believe that at all. The tailored suits, the smooth deals, the smirks. It's a coat of armor you wear; a mask you hide behind. You know what your problem is? You don't know who you are." She challenged him with her seeking gaze, stepping closer. He shivered as those sea blue eyes assessed him—slashing him open, raw and exposed. "So since you don't know, I'm going to tell you. When I was assaulted in Paris, it was you who came to my rescue and you who gave me a place to stay. You offered to help me with my passport, you came with me on the train, you offered to help me win back Victor. _That's_ who you are."

He shrugged, dismissing her misplaced faith in him. If she was looking for a hero, he was the wrong man.

"You're a good man, Luc d'Or, even if you don't think so," she said, putting a hand on his arm. "And I'm not letting you face your father alone. I'm coming, too."

"What? Non. Absolut non. I can handle Malcolm." He wasn't letting her anywhere near that viper.

"I'm sure you can. It's him I don't trust." Belle narrowed her eyes. "I'm coming with you."

Defeated, he sighed, too fatigued to continue arguing. "Fine. But stay silent."

"Oui," she said staunchly in a poor attempt to mimic his accent.

He hid a smile and forced himself to glare at her. Stubborn, troublesome woman. At the first opportunity he was getting that necklace back. Next he would return her to her fiancé. Then, finally, he would return to securing his future. If only that future didn't seem so empty.

* * *

"Hello, worm. What the hell are you doing here?" Malcolm d'Or reclined behind a massive mahogany desk, a cigar clamped between gleaming white teeth. Lean and tanned, at first glance he was the picture of health. But Luc noticed the telltale signs of strain around his eyes and the bloated roundness of his jaw, courtesy of too many shots of vodka at the Blackjack table.

Luc leaned against the doorjamb of the office, affecting an indifference he didn't feel. Belle stood a half-step behind him, her presence bolstering his spirit even as his pride roared that a real man would face Malcolm d'Or alone.

It really chaffed that he still cared what the bastard thought about him.

"Have you run grandfather's operation into the ground yet? Who does all the work around here while you're off chasing your misspent youth?" he asked, sitting down in the leather club chair in front of the desk.

"Consult the family tree, whelp," Malcolm snapped, eyes bulging. "He's not your grandfather, so neither his dead hide nor this vineyard are your concern. I'll ask you again: what are you doing here?"

"Just passing through." Luc crossed his leg and leaned back like he had all the time in the world.

"Who's the girl?" Malcolm jerked his head toward the doorway where Belle stood, glowering.

"Belle French. I introduced you in the square, remember?" Luc cracked his knuckles, a not-so-subtle reminder of who had won that brawl.

Malcolm paled and considered his reflection in a small desk mirror. He patted his battered nose and the papery skin under his eyes. Luc bit back a chuckle. The man was obsessed with getting older and loathed every sign of aging. If he could have discovered the Fountain of Youth and bottled that instead of wine, he'd have transformed himself into a horny teenager and hoarded every last drop for himself.

"Weren't the last 38 wasted years enough?" the older man snapped. "When will I finally be rid of you?"

"Soon, _Papa_ , very soon," he said, emphasizing the title his father loathed.

"Are you still planning to buy the old Avril place?" Malcolm asked, still obsessing with the mirror.

Luc stiffened. "What do you know of my plans?"

"That property is a wreck. The vineyard is overgrown, the cottage is in ruins." Malcolm chortled. "It's going to take great quantities of blood and sweat and money to get that place going again. Assuming it's still for sale when you get the cash together."

Clenching his fists, he seethed, wanting to lunge across the desk and wring the old man's scrawny neck. No. He would not allow himself to be needled. "Idle threats. I will have the land and I will make a great wine. And nothing you do will stop me!"

Exerting every ounce of self-control, he stood and leaned over the desk with a menacing glare, causing Malcolm to shrink back. "Oh, and by the way _—_ you look like shit."

Satisfied by the surprised rage plastered across the bastard's face, Luc guided Belle out the door and slammed it closed.

* * *

"That piece of land you showed me, it's very important to you, isn't it?" Belle asked. They stood at the depot, waiting to catch the last train to Cannes.

"Oui," he said, his guts churning in discomfort. He was not looking forward to the sway of the train exacerbating his stomachache, but he had no one to blame but himself.

Back at the estate, when Belle had gone to freshen up before their journey, she'd left her bag in his care. At last he'd had the chance he'd been waiting for since he found her in the alley beside the bar. Fingers itching, he'd yielded to the temptation of having the knapsack to all to himself. He'd rifled through her belongings, searching for his necklace. Nothing. Nothing? It _had_ to be there. Frantic, he'd overturned the bag, shaking out every last aspirin and hairpin.

Empty.

The necklace he'd procured and carried over 7,500 kilometers was gone.

No necklace meant no money. No money meant no land. No land meant no vineyard. Desolate, he'd put his head between his knees and wept.

 _He was finished._

An hour later, he didn't know what disgusted him more: knowing that the necklace was gone for good, or the sinking sensation that he'd betrayed Belle by looking for it. Unwilling to meet her eyes, he stood behind her as she fidgeted with a colorful scarf, a present from Ursula.

"You'd risk everything for that land, wouldn't you?" She turned to face him, toying with the material at her throat.

There was no censure in the question. He raised his eyes to her face. "Oui."

"Do anything to have it?"

"Oui."

"Get down on your knees and beg?"

"Oui." He cringed.

"Then what makes you so different from me?" she asked. "Admit it. Not much."

"Ok, I admit." He laughed in spite of himself. She was right—there was no difference. He wanted the vineyard. She wanted Victor. Both of them wanted a miracle.

While they waited, he considered her. The setting sun bathed her skin in a rosy glow and created a fiery halo around her riotous curls. Mon dieu, she was beautiful. But it was more than that. He respected her; her thoughts, her needs, her desires. What he wanted from her ceased to matter; she wanted Victor and he would honor that.

 _She wanted Victor._ He'd made a deal, and it was time to put his selfishness aside and hold up his end. "I will help you win your Victor back. If you want him back, we will get him back, just like I promised."

"I knew you were an honorable man," she said, smiling at him once more. "May I ask you something else?" She fixed her attention on the approaching train.

"Of course."

"How are you going to buy that vineyard? You must have some plan. Some strategy."

He winced, recalling that he had taunted her with those same words on the way here. "I had a plan, but it did not work out."

"It didn't work out? That's a shame. What was the plan?"

"I had…something to sell." He was shouting over the rumble of the train as it pulled into the station.

"Something? Like what? Stocks? Bonds? Little bags of plutonium?" She rubbed her fingers together.

"It's no matter now," he grumbled. "I lost it."

"You lost it?" She arched an elegant eyebrow. "If it was me I'd have some kind of backup plan. Something more than just _bullshit_ to fall back on." She hopped aboard the train and whirled around, standing in the entryway. "Something, perhaps, maybe a little bit….like this?"

Grinning, she pulled the scarf away from her neck, and he gawked in disbelief.

There—nestled against her throat, winking in the fading sunlight—was the necklace.

###

 _Up Next: On to the French Riviera, where Belle and Luc strategize to reunite Belle with Victor._


	15. Mistakes, I've Made A Few

_"It was like the first time I visited Versailles. There was an eerieness, like I'd been there before. I don't know if I was Louis XIV or Marie Antoinette or a lowly groundskeeper, but I lived there." – Maurice Minnifield_

"How long have you known about the necklace?" Luc patted the breast pocket of his suit where he'd tucked the string of diamonds.

They were in a taxi from the train station en route to the Carlton Hotel in Cannes. Surprised it had taken him this long to ask about the diamonds, Belle smiled at him across the black leather seat.

"Since the night you rescued me in Paris. I'd found it in my bag earlier that day. All the excuses you'd invented to follow me around finally clicked. With such a valuable piece of jewelry, I knew it was only a matter of time before you showed up looking for it," she said, patting her knapsack.

"Why didn't you turn it over to the police or have me arrested? You had ample opportunity."

"I saw good in you. When you found me in trouble, you didn't care about getting inside my bag—you cared about me." She reached out to squeeze his hand.

"You were imagining things," he scoffed, gaze pointed downward. "Remember, cherie, I'm a bastard. I look out for Number One."

"So you keep telling me." Belle rolled her eyes.

He could lie to himself all he wanted. The naked hurt on his face when he confronted his father, the light in his eyes when he made plans for his vineyard, and his mock gruffness all belied his claims to single-minded selfishness. No, Luc was a passionate person who felt deeply for others. He just needed someone to believe in him. It was a shame his ex-wife had used him so ill.

"It's true," he insisted, as though she had voiced her thoughts out loud.

She continued, "I told myself, any man who would rescue a virtual stranger in a dark alley can't be all bad. But I knew exactly what you were doing, so I just decided to have a little fun of my own."

"Mmmmm." His lips turned up at the corners. "You're rather pleased with yourself, aren't you?"

"I am, actually." Belle couldn't resist a self-satisfied smile before her tone turned serious. "Luc, if you wanted it, why didn't you just ask instead of going to such lengths to get it back? It is _your_ necklace, right?"

He inclined his head, looking sheepish. "After what happened with the vine, I didn't want to give you another reason to think the worst of me."

"That almost sounded like a genuine apology," she said, smiling.

"Don't get any ideas," he said, pointing out the window. "We're here."

Belle's lips parted in wonder as the taxi turned into a mammoth circular driveway graced by a fountain studded with mermaids. The marble glistened in the Mediterranean sun. Scents of jasmine, lavender, and rose perfumed the air. Off to the right, an infinity pool sparkled like aquamarines.

Her blissful smile withered. This opulent hotel wasn't the type of establishment Victor would splurge on. He'd certainly developed lavish taste in a short period of time. Perhaps his new girlfriend was bankrolling him.

Annoyance simmered in her gut, but she pushed it away. There was still hope. Luc had a plan and he'd promised to help her. Tomorrow, after chasing him across an ocean on an airplane and almost 600 miles by train, she would finally come face to face with Victor.

* * *

"One room, please," Luc said, setting down their shopping bags to check into the hotel.

Belle pulled him aside, away from the hotel clerk's appraising eyes and ears. "Luc, this resort is gorgeous, but I can't afford this place. You've already bought us more clothes and my Granny only wired me enough to cover basic travel expenses."

A credit card materialized in his fingers. "It's taken care of, cherie. Buy anything you need, all right?"

She shook her head. "But the expense! You should be saving to buy your vineyard."

"Once I sell my necklace, I will have all I need," he said, gesturing toward a set of plush chairs. "Relax. Trust me. Why don't you go read for a few minutes while I take care of business?"

Obeying, she shouldered her bag and wandered into an annex between the lobby and the hotel restaurant. Just as she opened her book, laughter echoed from the spacious dining room and a decadent pastry cart caught her attention.

Belle's stomach growled as her eyes and nose feasted on the elegant desserts. Éclairs, napoleons, a flaky, almond-studded tarte tatin, and a rainbow of macarons were stunningly displayed, along with whimsical glass dishes piped full of grey stuff, light and airy as a cloud. It all looked delicious.

Creeping closer, Belle's mouth watered, but the saliva dried on her tongue at the sound of a familiar laugh. _Victor._ Her heart quickened and then sank as she remembered. He was here with his precious paramour.

She ducked behind the dessert cart, surrendering to the urge to spy. Following the direction of Victor's voice, she wheeled the cart toward a table for four, thankful when she reached a fat, white pillar that hid her from view. There he was, sitting with Miss Perfect and an older couple, the woman bearing a striking resemblance to Rubie. Belle gritted her teeth. Her parents, of course.

Belle bit back a jealous oath, listening to her former fiancé ooze practiced charm. During their engagement, Victor had never even met her father, nor shown the slightest interest in knowing her only blood relation. Not that she and her dad had much of a bond. But still. Victor could at least have asked.

She shifted her attention to Rubie, whose raven tresses were bent over her meal. She sawed her food into tiny pieces, barely large enough to keep a bird alive. _The diamond on her ring finger is bigger than that morsel she's putting in her mouth._ Belle's cheeks burned, recalling the way she inhaled her lunch at Luc's home several hours ago.

Victor droned on about being a doctor, describing his television segment in colorful detail. As Rubie and her parents laughed and peppered him with questions, Belle scowled. Where had he gotten that hideous yellow silk shirt and paisley tie? It didn't suit him at all.

The wait staff darted peculiar glances in her direction, and she shifted positions, craning her neck from behind the pillar to eavesdrop. They were talking about getting married next weekend. Next weekend? Victor hadn't even set a date with her.

Victor stood, his eyes wide with surprise.

"What's wrong, darling?" Belle heard Rubie ask.

"Nothing. It's just that…I swear I just saw Belle," he said.

Face flaming, Belle ducked back behind the pillar. _Had he seen her?_

Musical peals of laugh rang out. "I'm sure it's just your imagination," she heard Rubie say. "Please, sit down."

She strained to hear their next words. Were they discussing her? Laughing at her expense? Belle's blood boiled.

Flustered, she stepped back, forgetting the dessert cart that had camouflaged her from view. Belle flipped over the cart in an earsplitting crash, her face landing in a cloud of meringue, whipped cream, and berry compote. Dishes smashed, metal trays clattered to the floor, and she was covered in cake. Clothes, face, shoes—she was smeared with pastry from head to toe. Curse her clumsiness!

Dozens of people stood up to see what had caused such a commotion, including Victor, who was headed straight for her.

Desperate to escape, Belle crawled out of the dining room, slithering and sliding on the marble floor. Just like a snake, she thought, miserable. This was worse than the walk of shame she'd done in after that disastrous one night stand in college with the odious Gary Anderson.

* * *

Where was Belle? Damn her, that woman disappeared more often than a magician. He'd turned around to offer her one of the room keys, but she was gone.

No sign of her in the lobby. Luc walked toward an annex that led to a series of corridors. His eyes widened. There she was, down on her hands and knees, scrabbling down the hallway. And covered in food.

Belle made a sharp right, veering down another corridor, slipping and squeaking as she crawled away.

Luc followed with cautious, quiet steps. Was she being hunted by a disgruntled pastry chef?

He collided with someone and turned, meeting the ice blue eyes of a blonde man wearing a puzzled expression. The other man's anxious eyes darted down the corridor, and he scratched his head. So this was Victor. Luc recognized him from the photo inside Belle's locket.

"Pardon," he managed to say, curling his hands into fists. He has the inexplicable impulse to punch the idiot's smug jaw.

Narrowing his eyes, Luc stepped back, enjoying Victor's discomfiture as he searched for Belle.

A lovely brunette in a short blue dress approached, tapping Victor on the shoulder with a red fingernail. "Victor, what are you doing?" she asked. "My parents are waiting…"

"I swear I just saw Belle," he said, raking a hand through his hair.

"Mais, non. Belle is not here," she said, pulling him away. "Come with me now."

Luc watched Victor follow his lady love back into the dining room, then turned to see Belle hiding behind a large potted fig tree. Heaving a sigh, he guided her toward the elevators to their room.

* * *

"Do you listen to anything I say?" He handed her another warm, wet towel and she wiped away the cake crumbs on her cheeks. "What did we talk about at the shops?"

She blinked at him from her seat on the foot of the bed and frowned, like a child waiting to be punished. "I listen," she said, sounding indignant.

"Vraiment? Really?" He raised his voice in challenge. "Repeat one piece of advice I gave you."

"Never let him see how much I want him," she mumbled, looking at her feet.

"And did you not just do the exact opposite of what we discussed?" He crossed his arms. "How can I help you win back this ridiculous man when you act like a clown?"

"Hey! It was an accident, all right? I wasn't expecting to see him right then. Sucking up to her parents. In that outfit? Ugh!" She tossed a towel smeared with chocolate and raspberry sauce to the floor. "And did you see her? Cutting her food into those tiny little chewable pieces."

He chuckled. "Oui, I saw her. She is…she is…"

"What? What? Oh, I see. I'm not sexy enough!"

"I didn't say anything!"

"Ha!" She pointed at him. "You don't have to say anything. It's written all over your face. I'm supposed to be this pouty little girl who says 'Yes' when she means 'No," and 'No," when she means 'Yes." Look, I cannot do it! Happy—smile. Sad—frown. Use the corresponding face to the corresponding emotion. But not you! No you want a mysterious, sexy, manipulative..."

He cut her off, waving his hands. "It is not me who wants it. I don't want it!"

"Then what do you want?" Her bewildered expression clutched his heart in a most uncomfortable fashion.

"Ugh!" He contemplated the ceiling, searching for the right words. "I want you…I want you…"

"You want me to what?"

He was being too hard on her. Softening his tone, he knelt on the floor in front of her, clasping her hands. "I want you to make Victor suffer. To be tempted. I want you to make him feel like even though you are right there in front of him, he can't have you. That's all."

* * *

Belle stalled in the shower, unaccountably bashful about letting Luc see her in the new I Love Paris nightshirt she had found at the shops. Hair damp, she tiptoed out of the bathroom and slipped under the cool, crisp sheets while his back was turned.

Luc approached the bed and lifted a pillow, then crossed the room to the sofa. "I think this thing pulls out," he said, removing the cushions.

Belle cleared her throat and propped up on one elbow, forgetting her reticence. "It's a settee. I don't think there's a bed tucked inside."

"No problem," he said, tossing the pillow at one end of the couch. "I've slept on worse."

She couldn't let him sleep on that small, hard sofa. "This bed is enormous," Belle said, rising from the luxurious down mattress to retrieve his pillow. "Come on. We can share."

One side of his mouth turned up at the corner and he tugged off his shirt, revealing his lean, wiry chest. "Do you think you'll be able to resist me, cherie?"

Belle spun back to the bed, fiddling with the bedclothes. She glanced at the thermostat. When had it gotten so warm in here? "I'm quite sure," she said, airily, turning back to face him. "Your virtue is safe with me."

The predatory glint in his eye was playful, and Belle swatted him with a pillow to cover her mottled cheeks.

Laughing, he caught the pillow and tossed it into the middle of the bed, and together they settled in on their respective sides.

"Luc?" Belle spoke into the safety of the darkness. She'd made a mess of things today with that scene in the restaurant.

"Oui?"

She stared at a shadow on the ceiling, grappling with self-doubt.

"Oui?"

Finally she ventured, "Do you think I still have a chance with Victor after what happened today?"

"Yes, of course. And tomorrow we will turn your mistake to our advantage," he said.

"We will?"

"Leave everything to me," he said, his voice thick with sleep. "Good night, cherie."

Belle tossed in bed, her thoughts occupied by the vineyard she and Luc had visited. The one he wanted to buy. The property was graced with a gorgeous stone chateau that looked remarkably like the one she had seen in her dream the night before she flew to Paris.

She pushed the memory aside, choosing not to examine that eerie coincidence too closely.

Luc shifted, his breathing deep and even, and his spicy, masculine scent drifted toward her. Belle's nostrils flared, and a tiny bud of desire unfurled inside her belly. At once the details of last night's dream on the train came flooding back. The one she couldn't quite recall at breakfast. Again she was at the stone chateau, but this time Victor had been there and he was kissing her. The image of Victor melted away to reveal Luc, his large, warm hands roving her back as his mouth plundered hers again and again, leaving her breathless and trembling.

Belle shivered and flipped over, presenting Luc with her back. "Victor," she whispered, curling into a ball and hugging herself. "Think about Victor."

###

 _Up Next: Belle and Luc surprise Victor._


	16. Roses and Thorns

_"... far be it from a French man to interfere with love." – E.A. Bucchianeri_

Luc blinked and slammed his eyes shut, the sunlight streaming through the windows seeping beneath his eyelids. Was it morning already?

"Five more minutes," he mumbled. Yanking the blankets up higher, he tried to shift away from the windows, but he couldn't move. Something—someone—was pressing him into the mattress.

Luc's eyes popped open, awareness flooding every pore.

His arms were full of Belle.

Warm and fragrant with citrus and vanilla, her head was tucked against his shoulder. Every lovely inch of her was pressed against his body, their legs entwined like open scissors. Luc leaned back to watch her sleep. Her breasts rose and fell with each serene breath, lush apples with pert peaks outlined by the thin nightshirt she wore. He closed his eyes against the arousing sight.

How had they wound up curled around each other? He twisted his neck toward her side of the bed. Empty. Belle had vaulted over the pillow barrier in the middle of the night.

Smothering a moan, he unwound a handful of long, coppery hair from around his neck. His throat felt tight and thick—just like another part of his anatomy.

A cold shower was definitely in order.

Unwrapping himself from Belle's slumbering body, he stumbled into the bathroom and turned on the faucet. Still surrounded by her scent, he stepped under the spray and took himself in hand as the cooling spray beat down on his aching body. Fifteen minutes later, the evidence of his surprise wakeup call was circling the drain.

Sobering thoughts chased away his fantasies as he toweled off. Today he was going to throw Belle into the arms of another man. A man who didn't deserve her.

 _You don't deserve her, either, fool._

Besides, she wanted Victor back. And a deal was a deal.

Never in a thousand years would he consider himself an appropriate match for Belle. Even if she turned away from her fiancé and cast her eyes in his direction, she was too good, too pure of heart, for the likes of him. Also, her fondest desire was to return to Canada. His life was here. He had meant what he told her in Paris about being finished with women.

Nothing mattered but the vow he had made to acquire his vineyard, and even that was a means to an end. Only then could he put the shame of his illegitimacy behind him and piece his family back together. The sooner he could reunite Belle with Victor, the sooner he could sell his necklace and rebuild his life.

And bring his boy home.

Resolute, Luc returned to the bedroom to set the day's plans in motion. Belle was sitting up in bed, rubbing her eyes like a bewildered child who had forgotten where she was.

Guilt branded him like a white hot iron as his body stirred again. He flung the terrace doors wide and asked, "Did you sleep well, cherie?"

"I…yes." He glanced back in time to see her frown at her side of the bed. The sheets were smooth and even. "How did I end up over here?"

"You must have moved while I was in the shower," he lied. He walked to the closet, scanning the clothing they'd purchased yesterday. "You should wear the green dress."

"Why?" She yawned, stretching her arms over her head.

"It brings out your eyes."

"No, I mean why? Where are we going?" she asked, climbing out of bed. She looked adorably confused standing in the middle of the room, flickers of sunlight dancing through her mussed hair.

"To find Victor, of course," he said, selecting a light khaki suit and a braided paper straw hat accented with a green feather. "The accident in the restaurant was the perfect setup."

"It was?"

"Yes, because he will be wondering, Did he see you? He'll be glancing around every corner. Unable to sit still. You will be like a ghost, a phantom. And it will infect them—their rapport."

"When do I confront him?" She held the emerald green dress in front of her, smoothing the skirt in front of the mirror.

He waggled his eyebrows. "Just when they are beginning to look comfortable again."

* * *

Belle twisted her hands in the folds of her sundress as she strolled down to the ocean, scanning the shoreline for a blonde head attached to an ugly green and blue Hawaiian shirt. She suppressed a shudder. Victor's new relationship certainly hadn't improved his wardrobe choices.

As Belle and Luc lingered over coffee and croissants in the hotel café—the perfect spot to people-watch—they had seen Rubie and Victor heading toward the walkway to the resort's private beach. "Wait until they've been sitting in the sun for an hour, cherie," Luc said. "Then you attack!"

Once her feet touched the warm, white sand, she gulped and turned around. Last chance to back out.

"Go," Luc mouthed from his post on the boardwalk, nodding his head. The encouragement heartened her, and she trudged onward.

"Good morning!" Belle chirped, poking her head between Victor and Rubie's beach chairs.

"Belle!" Victor jumped, whipping off his sunglasses and throwing down a crinkled copy of _The Wall Street Journal_.

She suppressed a smile. Luc had been right. Victor _was_ on edge. "May I sit with you?" she asked.

"But of course," Rubie said. "Please, have a seat." She whisked her hat out of the way and patted the lounge chair on her other side—far away from Victor.

Belle frowned at her statuesque rival's almond-shaped green eyes, and full, pouting lips. The other woman sported a poppy red bikini that would have looked trashy on anyone else, but seemed sexy and sophisticated on Victor's new fiancée. Thankful for the emerald green dress that gave her a surge of confidence, Belle dragged a chair across the sand and sat across from both of them. "So you must be Rubie."

"Oui, I am Rubie."

"Let me take a look at the woman who stole my Victor's little heart." Belle wagged her finger with a teasing smile.

"I did not steal anything that didn't want to be stolen." The words dripped from her lips like a spoken love song. It was as though someone had melted honey and poured it over her vocal cords.

"Oh," Belle said, turning to Victor. "She's smart, Victor. And beautiful. And probably great at everything."

"Look, Belle—" He rose from his chair.

"Relax, Victor." She lifted a hand. "I didn't come here for a fight."

"But—"

"Ah, hello, waiter." Belle batted her eyelashes at the young server and ordered a Sea Breeze in brusque, no-nonsense English.

She returned her attention to Victor as the young man scurried off to fill her drink request. "Here's the key to French waiters: If you're nice to them, they treat you like shit. Treat them like shit, they love you."

"Oh." Victor scratched his head.

"Rubie, s'il vous plait, une carrotte?" Belle asked, pointing at a basket of fresh cut vegetables.

"Voila."

"Merci," Belle said, nibbling on a carrot, feeling the weight of Victor's stare. "Is something wrong?"

"No! Nothing. Everything's great," Victor said, glancing at Rubie. "It's just that you seem so…different."

"Do I? Well, the truth is, I'm going through some kind of transitional thing."

"What do you mean?" He wrinkled his brow.

"After you called, I decided to get on a plane to Paris and get you back." She turned to Rubie and said, "I hate to fly. In fact I never fly. Isn't that right, Victor?"

"Yes, that's true," he said to Rubie.

"But I told myself there is no way that this entire life I've been building would be destroyed just because some pouty little bitch—pardon my French—" Belle laughed, "wanted to steal herself a husband. So I bought the ticket, got on the plane, and somehow made it over the big blue ocean. And then the most extraordinary thing happened."

"What happened?" Victor leaned forward.

"Everything went wrong," she said. "You can't imagine the nightmare. I was wandering the streets of Paris, penniless, without any hope. I'd lost my money, my clothes, my passport, even my books!"

"That's terrible," Rubie said, clucking her tongue.

Belle patted Rubie's hand. "We don't know each other, but I feel like I can confide in you. All my life, I've tried to protect myself from exactly this situation. And you can't do it. There's no home safe enough, there's no country nice enough, there's no relationship secure enough. You're just setting yourself up for an even bigger fall and having an incredibly boring time in the process." She winced. "Oops. Sorry, Victor. Forgot you were here."

Belle took a long pull on her drink. The frosty, fruity cocktail was refreshing, but not half as delicious as the befuddled expression on Victor's face.

"Anyway, I decided it was time to stop talking about being brave, and start living it," she said with a smile. "And that's when I hooked up with Luc."

"What? Who is Luke?" Victor asked.

"Not Luke. Luc," Belle corrected. "Luc!" Belle hollered, waving him over. "Come meet some wonderful people."

Belle watched Victor stiffen as Luc sauntered across the sand, looking polished yet relaxed in his fine suit, his hat tilted across his forehead at a rakish angle.

"Bonjour, ma beaute," Luc smiled into her eyes before brushing feather-light kisses across both her cheeks. Slipping an arm around Luc's waist, Belle made the introductions.

"Luc, meet the lovely Rubie. And this is Victor."

"Enchanté," Luc said to Rubie. He extended a hand to Victor. "So this is your sweetheart?"

"Oui," Belle rested her head on Luc's shoulder for a moment and Victor's eyes darkened with emotion. Jealousy perhaps? Belle hoped so.

"Oh! Goodness it's warm out here," Belle said, giving Luc a playful push. He captured her hand and kissed it _,_ rubbing it against his whiskers. A thrill of awareness shot through her. She ran her thumb along his jawline, sweeping her hand down his neck to adjust the perfect knot in his tie. His Adam's Apple bobbed, and her heart gave an answering pulse.

"Ooh la la. **"** Il capte rien," Luc tapped Belle on the nose and nuzzled her ear.

Victor cleared his throat, reminding Belle of her audience. Luc stepped back and settled in the lounge chair next to Rubie.

"What'd he just say?" Victor cupped his jaw.

"I don't know." Belle heaved a happy sigh and reclaimed her chair, her eyes trained on Luc as she spoke. "Isn't he wonderful? He doesn't speak much English, but we seem to manage just fine."

"You do?"

"Yes. Body language is so expressive." She crossed her legs, allowing her skirt to slip higher on her thigh, and giggled. "I mean it's probably just a rebound thing to help me get over us, but you only live once, right?"

"What does he do?" Victor asked, crossing his arms.

"Besides what we do together?" Belle asked, still staring at Luc. "I don't think he does anything at all. Huh." She took another sip of her drink, pretending to ponder the mystery.

Luc tapped a finger against his wrist and whistled.

"Oh! That's right. We should go. It's Roleplay Wednesday and Luc and I have special plans. Today he's the ruthless landlord and I'm the mysterious French tenant who—"

"Ok!" Victor slammed his hands over his ears. "That's enough, Belle. Stop, please, before my ears bleed."

"Oh, Victor," Rubie gave an airy laugh. "Don't be such a prude. They're adorable together."

"Adorable," Victor said with a frown. "Wait! It's not even Wednesday."

"Are you ready, cherie?" Luc offered Belle his arm to steady her as she slipped her sandals on her feet.

"Yes, thank you." Belle offered Victor one last brilliant smile, tucked her arm through Luc's, and together they headed back in the direction of the hotel.

"Have a wonderful afternoon," Rubie called after them with a wave.

xoxo

"That was amazing!" Belle cried after they had rounded the corner of the hotel a block away from the beach. "It was like being the heroine in my own story." Elated, she twirled in a circle, ignoring the stares of passersby.

"You were fantastic," Luc said, presenting her with a single long-stemmed red rose.

"Why, thank you," Belle said, bringing the fragrant bloom to her nose.

"He was completely destroyed. You had him in a constant state of anxiety. And you even managed to charm his ladylove." He bowed slightly. "Very impressive, Belle."

"Well, you're not the only one who can be persuasive." Belle grinned. "God, I feel released!" Clutching her rose, she spun in another circle and sashayed down the street in jubilee.

"Now, later today, you should arrange a special dinner with Victor pretending to work out the details of the break up," Luc said. "Perhaps tonight? And I promise you that by tomorrow you will be queen of the castle again."

"Really?" Belle froze and laid a hand on his forearm, chewing her lower lip. "So soon?"

"There's nothing to fear, cherie. I told you my plan would work, yes?"

"You did." Belle lifted her chin, shaking off the sensation that something wasn't quite right.

"We must celebrate. Some wine, some champagne. Ah!" Luc gestured at a vendor down the block. "I'll be right back. Don't move."

Belle wandered a few feet over to a bench and sat down, trying to recapture the victorious feelings of a few minutes ago. Toying with the stem of the rose, she pricked her finger on a stray thorn. "Ouch!" She stuck the digit in her mouth, soothing the ache.

The taste of blood was bitter on her tongue and angry tears sprang to her eyes. She had finally achieved what she'd wanted for days—a chance to speak to Victor. And it had gone better than she could have hoped.

So why did she feel so wretched?

"It's a beautiful day to be in Cannes, isn't it Belle?"

Startled, Belle looked up. A tall blonde man stood over her, holding out a tissue. "Inspector Nolan!" she sniffled. "What are you doing here?"

###

 _Up Next: Belle decides to make changes. David issues an ultimatum._


	17. It's Complicated

_"In French culture, the best way of buying time or getting off the hook entirely in a thorny personal situation is to claim that it's complicated. The French did not invent love, but they did invent romance, so they've had more time than any other culture on earth to refine the nuances of its language." ― Mark Zero_

"Did you ever catch up with your fiancé? Detective Nolan asked, stretching out his long legs as he settled on the bench beside her. His blue eyes mild, he tucked his hands behind his head with a relaxed sigh.

"What can I do for you, Detective?" Belle stood up and darted her eyes down the block where Luc was waiting in line for champagne. _Please don't let him come back yet_ , she prayed.

Nolan and his pixie-like partner had interrogated her about Luc at the hotel in Paris. Dread coiled in her stomach. She had a bad feeling the policeman's reappearance spelled trouble. Belle trained worried eyes on Luc, all the anticipation of a celebratory afternoon spoiled. Defeated, she dropped the rose Luc had gifted her into her lap. This morning's triumph with Victor on the beach seemed so very long ago.

"We have a mutual acquaintance—Luc d'Or." Keeping his eyes on her, Nolan unrolled a newspaper and opened it to the Sports section.

"I'm sorry, who?" She scrunched her nose, a desperate attempt to appear puzzled.

"That innocent act may have worked in Paris, but I won't be duped again." He stared hard down the road in the direction Luc had walked, then turned to face Belle. "You and Monsieur d'Or have been seen together. On the train to Cannes, at the hotel, down on the beach…"

"Point taken." Belle gritted her teeth. "Can we talk about this somewhere else?"

Nolan bobbed his head toward a small garden, and Belle followed him behind a copse of fragrant olive trees.

She lifted her eyes to the cloudless sky. She was a lousy liar, anyway. "Fine, I know him. How do you two know each other?"

"We have a long history. That's why I've come to talk to you about the necklace."

"Necklace? What necklace?"

Another level look.

"Oh, _that_ necklace." Belle forced a laugh through parched lips. "It's actually a funny story: he forgot to declare it when we went through customs. Will he have to pay some kind of penalty?"

He snorted a laugh. "Ask Greene's Jewelry Store in Topeka, Kansas, in the United States."

"Kansas?" Belle's shoulders slumped, weighed down with a mixture of disappointment and fear. Damn, she was gullible. She should have known those diamonds had been stolen. Even so, she was intrigued by the officer's unconventional approach to crime-solving. Eager to know more about his association with Luc, she lifted her eyebrows in challenge. "Why don't you just arrest him, Inspector?"

"Call me David." The corners of his mouth lifted, widening into a warm smile. "It's complicated. I owe him a debt much greater than the debt of money. Years ago, Luc saved my life in a stakeout gone wrong. At times we find ourselves on opposite sides of the law, but he's a good man, a true friend. To an outsider, he appears to walk a moral grey area, but everything he does—it's out of a sense of honor. Family means everything to Luc. Did you know my son is named after his?"

"The son that died?" she asked, her eyes burning with sudden tears.

"Neal dead? Where did you get that idea?" His gaze turned hawkish.

Belle flushed, embarrassed as she recalled snooping through Luc's flat in Paris. "There's a bedroom at his apartment in the city. More like a shrine, really—small clothes laid out on the bed, posters, trophies—everything prepared for a little boy as if…waiting for his return."

David wiped a hand over his face. "How foolish of me. I should have realized. Luc hasn't seen Neal in years—not since Milah sent him away to school."

Milah again. What kind of mother would banish a loving father from his child? Anger reared up in Belle's heart, a frantic beat of pain and sorrow for her friend. She said only, "He must miss him very much."

"Yes. So does my daughter, Emma. They are about the same age and she has a terrible crush on him." David gave an indulgent smile, then shook his head. "Since Luc learned of his illegitimacy and his family fell apart, he's become consumed with acquiring a vineyard in the region where he was raised and amassing power and a fortune to replace the inheritance he lost. He thinks he needs to prove himself worthy before he brings his boy home. I've told him it's not true, that Neal will accept him anyway. But until a man believes the truth with his whole heart, nothing will convince him. He needs to discover it for himself."

"I know about his plans and I can't blame him—not after what he's been through." Belle sucked on the inside of her cheek to distract herself from crying. "I met his...Malcolm. He's a stupid, selfish bastard."

"He is that." David nodded.

Belle took a deep breath. "Luc also said his wife left him when she learned he'd lost his fortune. What was she like?"

"Milah? We met only a couple of times and it's been years. From what I remember she was quite beautiful, provocative…"

 _Provocative_. Belle felt like she'd been slapped. David was still talking, but his voice had faded to a string of meaningless sounds.

Luc had suggested Belle be more provocative for Victor. As they'd walked through town yesterday, he had pointed out the French women's flirtatious mannerisms and pretty pouts as they'd interacted with their lovers. Those poor men had panted after their women—puppies with wide, lovestruck eyes.

Luc thought Rubie attractive too, with her flashy dress and brightly painted mouth. Victor obviously favored Rubie's style since he'd thrown Belle over to marry her. In two weeks' time.

Something in these French women's approach was working in their favor.

Belle pinched and pulled on the clean lines of her classic green frock and scowled at her flat, nude sandals. Perhaps it was time for a change.

"…anyway, that's all I remember of Milah."

Belle blinked at David. "I'm sorry, what did you say?"

"Mademoiselle, you are far away. Dreaming of the one you love, perhaps?" He looked down at the rose she held and shoved his hands in his pockets with a sheepish grin. "Back to the reason for my visit. The necklace can be returned to me tomorrow, anonymously."

"Luc will never agree." Belle shook her head.

"He must." David laid a sympathetic hand on her shoulder. "You still have my card, yes? Go find Luc; he will be wondering where you've gone. Call me tomorrow after you speak to him."

"You want me to tell him? But you're friends with him. We-he and I barely know each other. Please," she begged. "I can't."

"I think you are capable of far more than you realize." David's voice was firm yet kind, and an emotion she didn't understand flashed in his eyes. "Yes," he nodded. "This news will be easier coming from you." Whistling a light melody, David disappeared around the corner, melting into the crowds.

With a sigh, Belle returned to the bench where Luc had left her, then walked down the block to the food cart he'd been standing near. But he was nowhere in sight.

Giving up, she ambled down the Rue d'Antibes, frowning at her distorted reflection in the shiny shop windows. It was just as well that Luc had abandoned their plans after she had disappeared on him. Heart heavy with David's revelations, she dragged her feet, prolonging the inevitable confrontation about the necklace. Truth be told, she didn't want to see Luc at all. Not so he could compare her to ravishing beauties like Rubie and Milah, then find her even more distasteful when she crushed his dreams.

Belle cringed, homesick for the comfort of a good book. Since she'd come to France, her quiet, simple life had twisted into a labyrinth of complications. A mystery was a safe diversion in the pages of a story where clever heroines slayed dragons with wit and intelligence. It was easy to read about someone else's adventures, but living out her own was bringing its own set of challenges. Yes, she'd confronted Victor this morning, but most of what she'd said and done had been a farce. Did she have the guts to have the tough, honest conversations, or would she always be running away and sticking her head in the sand?

Overhead, clouds rumbled in warning and rain began to patter in fat, cool droplets. She held a hand to her forehead like a visor, scanning the street for shelter.

A bright red awning framing a pretty stone building beckoned her closer. Collette Salon, the sign read. Gnawing her lip in indecision, Belle watched the rain fall and calculated how much emergency cash remained in her soggy pocket. Throwing the door open, Belle marched inside.

It was time to start taking risks.

* * *

Belle pranced up to the bar and ordered two French Blonde cocktails, one for her and one for Ariel.

Following her impromptu afternoon of pampering, she'd returned to the hotel in search of Luc. Reluctant to discuss the stolen diamonds, she'd nonetheless boarded the elevator to their room—and ran smack into Ariel.

Belle's heart had flooded with relief. Grateful for a dear and familiar face and an easy excuse to give Luc the bad news later, she dashed off a note telling him where she'd gone, leaving it in the hotel receptionist's care. Linking arms with Ariel, she dragged her back in the direction of the shops. Belle had a new plan, and the more support she had while facing Victor, the better.

She needed every weapon in her arsenal.

As for the necklace, it could wait until tomorrow.

Now she and Ariel were hanging at a hip nightclub in the Carre d'Orarea in the heart of Cannes. Hopping up on the barstool, Belle wriggled her bottom to get comfortable—the daringly short black leather skirt she'd selected for the occasion clinging like a second skin.

Belle's mind drifted to the leather pants Luc had worn when they'd met on the airplane. He was such a chameleon—equally at ease in leather and a three-piece suit—suave jewel thief and buttoned-up businessman rolled into one graceful, powerful package. She wondered what he'd be wearing tonight. If he showed up at all.

 _Focus, Belle._

She slid one elderflower and lemon-spiked concoction across the polished bar to Ariel, and lifted her own glass to her flushed forehead.

"Delicious." Ariel sipped her drink. "Why are we at this place again?"

"Because Victor is here. Somewhere." Belle scanned the dance floor, following the motion of the strobe lights as they flashed and roved in time to the hefty beat of Beyonce's "Single Ladies."

"So we're stalking him and his girlfriend?" Ariel crossed her legs and leaned closer, green eyes snapping with excitement.

"Noooo." Belle gave her drink a frenzied stir, then shifted again, looking toward the club's entrance. "More like casually bumping into them at a place where we know they'll be."

"Stalking. Got it." Ariel's dimples flashed, and Belle tossed her an annoyed look.

"Sorry I wasn't here sooner, Belles," Ariel said. "Granny sent me as soon as we heard about you and Victor, but I got a little sidetracked. I missed the train you were on and then I spent two days in bed with this hottie concierge at the hotel. Tall drink of water with stormy grey eyes and wild curls. Jefferson was his name."

Even in the darkened dance hall Belle could see Ariel's blush. "Ewww. That guy?"

"You know him?"

"Don't ask." Belle had no pleasant memories of the snooty, unhelpful concierge, but she wasn't going to shatter Ariel's illusions. "What about you and Eric?"

"It's no good," Ariel said with a moan. "We never see each other. Now he's taken a job as a captain of a cruise ship. Can you believe it?"

"Yes, I can." Belle gave Ariel's hand an absent pat. "Sweetie, he's a sailor." She tapped the ball of one foot against the rails of the bar stool and craned her neck toward the door once more.

"Whatever. Anyway, I'm here now, and I want to help," Ariel said. "Assuming you still want my brother back?"

"Why wouldn't I?" Belle glanced at her watch.

"Because Victor's over there"—Ariel pointed to a cluster of tables where Rubie and Victor sat, foreheads touching. "And you're all dolled up, watching the door for this Luc guy like your life depends upon it."

"I am not," Belle said, hating the squeaky pitch of her voice. "I'm just choosing my moment. It's—it's complicated."

"Complicated, yes." Ariel rolled her eyes. "I suppose that outfit you insisted on buying has nothing to do with Luc, either."

"Quit making a scene," Belle hissed, throwing back her drink in one frantic guzzle. She jumped down from the seat. "I'm going to play pool."

"I'll watch the door for you," Ariel called as Belle made a beeline for the stairs and the gaming tables. Belle lifted her chin another notch, pretending not to hear.

She was just chalking up her cue to break, when she felt a tap on her shoulder. "You know, Ariel…" she began, snapping her hips around to offer a piece of her mind about friendship and support.

The tongue lashing died on her lips as she turned, colliding with familiar brown eyes. Luc.

"Belle?" Luc said, sounding incredulous. "What happened to you? And what the hell are you wearing?"

###

 _Up Next: Luc and Belle have a difference of opinion._


	18. Woman Up

_I like Frenchmen very much, because even when they insult you they do it so nicely._ _\- Josephine Baker_

Through a haze of smoke, Luc watched Belle undo yet another button on the sheer white blouse that barely covered her midriff. Gone was the gorgeous mane of copper curls he'd buried his nose in this morning while she'd slept in his arms, a sleek blonde bob in its place. The shorter style framed her delicate cheekbones, making her look striking and sophisticated. And French.

He hated it.

With a wink at her opponent, a tall, tanned, hulking fellow with roving hands and eyes, Belle lifted her arms to chalk up her billiard stick. The motion exposed more of the crimson bustier beneath her see-through blouse, and an even more tantalizing glimpse at her creamy skin. Aiming her cue to break the rack of balls, Belle bent low over the pool table, her black leather skirt inching up in the back. Three men sauntered behind her, setting down drafts of lager and propping their elbows against a high bar table to admire her shapely derriere and watch her hustle this poor bastard at billiards.

For twenty minutes, Luc had been skulking in the corner of the nightclub's game room, torn between strangling her and kissing her senseless. Silent fury won out as he shifted his weight between his feet, adjusting his pants. Meghan Trainor's song "Woman Up" blared through the sound system and he cursed himself for at least the thousandth time today.

Perhaps it was not her hapless pool opponent but he who was the poor bastard in question.

For over an hour following Belle's mysterious disappearance when he'd left her to buy a bottle of champagne, he'd searching the neighborhood surrounding the hotel. Soaked to the skin from a sudden afternoon rainstorm, he had dragged himself back to the room to towel off and awaited her return.

Much to his current embarrassment, Luc had prowled around the small space, pacing the seaside balcony and called down to the front desk, asking if the clerks had seen her. He'd even practiced sprawling on the suite's loveseat with one of her ridiculous romance novels. When she did come back, didn't want to look as though he'd wasted the afternoon waiting and worrying.

The shrill ring of the doorbell had sent him scrambling, thrilled by the opportunity to gloat that Belle had forgotten her keycard. But his heart sank to discover it was only the bellman. After skimming a note from Belle explaining that she'd gone shopping and ordering him to meet her at this nightclub, he'd kicked the door closed, leaving the startled bellhop in the hallway still waiting for a tip.

 _Shit._ He hated these places with their earsplitting pop music, overpriced, watered-down drinks, and unwashed bodies grinding together. Not a decent glass of wine to be found in this hellhole. But Belle had called, so he answered.

What an absolute fool he was.

After sinking three balls in one shot, Belle sashayed around the pool table and smiled gamely at the hulk. She lifted a shot glass from the edge of the table and tossed it back, then swiped her moist lips with the inside of her wrist. Smirking, she backed up against the table and held the cue behind her back. A little flick of her wrist sent the 9 ball sailing into the corner pocket. Her opponent's hungry eyes hardened into little black beads as it dawned on him that he'd been duped. Luc cracked his knuckles in response to the harsh set of the brute's jaw. If that creep so much as laid a finger on Belle, he'd choke him till he turned as purple as the too-tight polo shirt he wore.

A small crowd had gathered to watch Belle play, flirt, and prance around. He barely recognized this brazen girl. Where was his practical bookworm huddling inside her serviceable cardigan? What had befallen the little miss who moaned and complained about the dead battery in her book light until he stopped at a pharmacy to buy her a new one?

"Hi there." A redhead with an angelic face materialized beside him, wearing a dress as green as her eyes and a knowing smile. Her wide gaze volleyed between him and Belle with rapt attention.

"Not interested," he said, looking straight ahead.

The girl laughed, low and musical. "All I said was hello."

"Who are you?" he asked, patting his breast pocket. He was about desperate for a cigarette.

"Victor's sister, Ariel. Also Belle's best friend since, like, forever. I'm here to help Belle win back the adoration of my charming brother. Convince him that he was crazy to let her go." She paused, and he felt the hardness of her stare as he watched Belle pocket the last ball, collect a wad of cash, and saunter to the roulette table, wiggling her backside all the way. "That's the plan, right?" Ariel pressed.

Luc grunted. This girl could fish for information all she liked; he wasn't taking the bait.

"Look, here's Victor now." She pointed as Belle's ex and his paramour approached Belle. "Wonder what he'll think of Belle's new look."

Luc ground his teeth as Victor embraced Belle, then placed a sloppy kiss to the side of her painted mouth. Her former lover's eyes glittered with awareness as he openly ogled the woman he'd cast aside, seeming to forget all about his new fiancée. The three were speaking, but he couldn't hear what was being said.

Luc swallowed past the lump in his throat as desire, fury, and protectiveness piled up inside of him, crowding his lungs, forcing out all the air. It was like having a chest full of frantic bats, all beating their wings, screeching to get out.

Leaving Belle's friend in the corner, he stalked closer, straining to listen to the conversation above the heavy beat of the music. Victor touched Belle's shoulder and the minx threw back her head and laughed.

"Surprise is right," Victor was saying, still eyeing Belle appreciatively. "You look…wow! I mean, this is incredible. Honey, doesn't Belle look incredible?"

"Incroyable," Rubie agreed. She gave Luc a lascivious wink as he sidled up next to Belle.

Luc fixed a steely glare on Victor while Belle thrust he shoulders back and straightened even taller in her ridiculous high heels, preening at the praise.

"Luc." Belle said, sounding surprised. Took her long enough to notice him. "When did—"

"I know, I've returned empty-handed," he interjected, wedging himself between her and Victor. "But Belle, ma beaute, the queue at the bar is quite long. I couldn't bear to be away from you any longer," he said, leaning closer to caress her ear with his breath. He smothered a smile as he felt her shudder, then brushed his lips across her skin, offering six kisses on each velvety cheek.

"What was that for?" she asked, darting her eyes toward the club's exit and giving him a meaningful look.

He threw her a feral smile. If she thought she was getting rid of him now, she was insane. No, she was going to pay handsomely for this little stunt. "A traditional Cannes greeting," he lied, pulling her into his arms. Aware that Victor was watching he purred, "I missed you, ma petite choux."

"You did?" Belle asked, her voice nearly a squeak as he nibbled her earlobe, then blazed a trail of kisses down the side of her neck. A tiny moan escaped her throat and he ran his hands slowly down her bare arms, kneading her warm flesh, careful to keep his inflamed lower body parted from hers. Let her believe she was the only one affected in this little game.

Victor cleared his throat, coughing into his fist.

"How about dinner?" Luc asked Belle.

"Dinner?" she repeated, looking dazed. Her lips were parted and glistening and her neck and collarbone were flushed, a small love bite forming in the juncture between her neck and shoulder thanks to his ministrations. Luc bit back a satisfied smile at her body's response to his seduction.

"Mais oui, a farewell dinner between you and Victor. A civilized way to work out the details of the split. Furniture. Finances." He waggled his eyebrows at Belle. "Books?"

"Great idea," Victor said, nodding.

"I understand congratulations are in order, Doctor Whale. You plan to marry soon?" Luc asked.

"In two weeks," Victor said, with a glance at Belle.

"Fantastique. While you two are dining, the lovely Rubie and I can meet up as well," Luc suggested, bending over Rubie's hand. "We shall swap tales of falling in love with Americans…sorry, Canadians," he amended at Belle's sharp look.

"Oui," Rubie breathed, laying a hand on his forearm. "I would love to hear more about how Belle absconded with your heart."

"It's not as though you need lessons," Belle replied, a sweet smile covering the hardness of her words. "You could write a book on stealing lovers."

Luc smirked at Victor. To his surprise, rather than rising to his fiancée's defense, Victor stared at the sticky cement floor.

"Victor, I'll be in the ladies' lounge," Rubie said, tossing her long black hair and stomping away.

"I'm going to pay for that later," Victor said with a nervous laugh.

"Oh, poor Victor," Ariel mocked, walking over as Rubie trotted off to the restroom. She tossed him dirty look and slung a comforting arm around Belle. "Does the big bad sexy woman scare you?"

"Stay out of it, Ariel," Victor said, taking a swig of his beer. "What are you doing here, anyway?"

"Well, I'm certainly not here for you," she said with a sniff. "Not that I was invited to your wedding, anyway."

"Maybe that's because all you do is nag," he said.

Ariel gave her brother a small push and they took off together, bickering as they went.

As soon as they disappeared, Luc grabbed Belle's arm, whirling her to face him. "What the hell are you wearing?"

For a moment her face fell, then she shrugged her tiny shoulders. "I decided try something different."

"What did you do to your hair?" he asked.

"It's called a haircut," she said, looking at him like he'd lost his mind.

"I don't like it," he barked. He reached out to button her gaping blouse.

"Don't like what?" she asked, slapping his hands away.

"The clothes, the hair. Any of this." He waved his hand around the hot, crowded club.

"Strange that I don't recall asking for your opinion," she said, crossing her arms over her chest.

"Strange that _I_ don't recall you asking me to come here," he said. He held up the damp, crumpled note from the hotel and flicked it at her feet. "I'm not a gumball machine, cherie. You can't just twist the handle every time you want a treat."

"Ha! You're going to lecture me about using people?" she yelled. "You're a thieving smuggler! A smuggling thief!"

"Keep your voice down," he hissed.

"You were the one who wanted to help," Belle said, throwing up her hands. "'Be sexy,' you said. 'Be more provocative, Belle.' You said—"

"Forget about what I said!" He whipped off his suit coat and swung it around her back, draping the soft linen over her shoulders.

"I'm not cold," she said, sidling away from him, her nose in the air.

"Put it on," he ordered through clenched teeth. He yanked his pocket square out of his coat and tried to hand it to her. "Then go wash your face."

"When hell freezes over!" Her black-lined eyes framed irises cold as ice cubes.

"Why is it that you're so docile with Victor and so abrasive with me?" he asked, shoving the rejected handkerchief in his pocket. "You'd think, with what I'm doing for you, you'd be kind to me."

"Arranging a breakup dinner with Victor is supposed to help me win him back?" she snapped.

"Oui," he said, losing patience. Did she understand nothing? "To give you time alone together."

"I..." All the fight went out of her and her shoulders slumped, her small hands shaking as they smoothed her glossy tresses. "I thought you would like it." A tear solitary slipped down her cheek and she dashed it away, giving him her back.

"Belle." He laid tentative hands on her slender shoulder blades and turned her to face him. Tears were running down her face now and he smoothed them away with his thumbs. Seeing her cry was more than he could bear. "This isn't who you are," he said.

"I see," she said stiffly, wiping her palms on her leather skirt.

Sighing, he rubbed the back of his neck. She didn't see at all. "Belle…"

She sniffled and stepped out of reach. "You're not only making a judgement on my sex appeal. It's all women now. Some of us are allowed to dress this way, encouraged even. Like your prostitute friends back in Paris," she ground out.

"That's not the problem," he said, glaring at another group of onlookers who had stopped to stare at her like a confection. "These clothes would be fine if you weren't pretending to be someone you're not."

She pressed her lips together and he closed the distance between them once more, like a tossing ship seeking a lighthouse.

"It was terrible advice that I gave you, cherie." Lifting her chin, he whisked away another silver tear, blotting streaks of black mascara off her face. "I was wrong. You are beautiful—just as you are. And possess a loveliness that shines from within, no matter what the outer package looks like. Do not be fooled by appearances, even your own. And don't try to be someone you're not to please a man—not Victor, not your family, not strangers at a nightclub—no one."

Startled blue eyes met his, darkening to soft smudges of indigo. "You think I'm beautiful?" she whispered, the hard line of her mouth curving upward into a smile.

"Inside and out," he said, holding back a relieved sigh as she allowed him to wrap his suit coat around her. The fabric swallowed her frame, making her appear small and fragile, like a little girl playing dress up. Endearments bubbled up in a wellspring of emotion, threatening to pour out of his breaking heart. How he longed to protect her, to keep her heart safe always. But until he secured his land and his son, he wasn't in a position to offer Belle anything.

She wouldn't want his promises, anyway.

"Thank you," she said. "I understand now. But I need some fresh air. I'm going for a walk."

 _Say something, you idiot._

"Belle," he began as she picked up her handbag.

"Yes?"

"Um, take a taxi back to the hotel? It's safer," he finished lamely.

She nodded and headed for the stairs to the ground floor.

Waiting a few minutes so she wouldn't mistake him for trying to follow her, he too exited Folding himself into a bench outside the door, he sparked a cigarette and stared up at the brilliant evening sky. Tomorrow he would help Belle prepare for her dinner, sell his necklace, and walk out of her life forever.

"Frites?" A female voice intruded on his thoughts. Ariel. She sat down and stuck a paper cone filled with crispy potatoes under his nose. "They're still warm."

"Non, merci." He turned his head. Tonight, the smell of one of his favorite foods turned his stomach.

"My brother's a real ass," she said, dipping a fry in ketchup.

"L'amour est aveugle. Love is blind," he said with a humorless chuckle. "Belle is getting what she wanted. Back there he was eating out of her hand."

Ariel hooted around a mouthful of frites. "You think she spent all afternoon shopping and waxing and changing herself to suit him?"

"Of course." Belle's friend was a strange girl.

"Men. Doesn't matter what country you're from. You're all clueless." Ariel crumpled up the paper from her snack and it sailed over his head into a wastebasket. "In eighth grade I got a spiral perm after I broke up with Tristan. Senior year I went super short when Bahari threw me over right before prom. When Eric and I decided to see other people? I got extensions."

"Is there a point to this?" he asked, blowing smoke rings in her smug face.

Her eyes didn't even water.

"The first thing a woman does when she gets over a man is change her hair," she said. "This wasn't about Victor. It was all for you."

 _Up Next: Belle offers to sell Luc's necklace._


	19. Beautiful Things

_"Sea and land may lie between us, but my heart is always there with you." – Nancy B. Brewer_

Wearing only a sleeveless nightdress, Belle stood barefoot in the dim hotel hallway with an armful of wrinkled clothes, the heels she'd worn that evening dangling from her fingers by the straps. She shivered, both from the chill of the cool corridor and anticipation. After he'd scolded her at the nightclub like an overprotective father, this was hardly the way she wanted Luc to see her.

But it couldn't be helped. She was desperate.

Carrying her last shred of dignity, she'd left the club with her head held high, praying Luc couldn't see her trembling knees or quivering chin. When at last she burst through the door, the snap of the cool evening air was a welcome relief to her burning lungs. So much for her walk on the wild side. At the gaming tables tonight, she'd exposed a long-buried slice of her personality—her skill with a pool cue hadn't been revealed since college. She could have simply played a couple of rounds and worn a plunging neckline.

But no. As with everything, she'd had to take her changes to extremes.

Victor had been impressed with the "new Belle," which brought her fleeting pleasure, but the triumph vanished the moment she'd seen Luc's stunned expression. The disappointment and confusion reflected in his eyes had shaken her, making her feel cheap and ridiculous.

She hadn't known how important his good opinion was until she'd lost it.

Embarrassment pinching even harder than her candy apple red stilettos, Belle had returned to the hotel to hide out in Ariel's room. Maybe she could drown her sorrows in a case of champagne. Now that her friend was here in Cannes, she had no reason to share a room with Luc anyway.

Belle had hurried into the bathroom, frowning at her reflection in mirror. All she wanted was to remove all evidence of her transformation. After scrubbing all the makeup off her face and wriggling out of the constricting leather ensemble, she had attacked the sexy blonde wig. She'd giggled, remembering Luc's look of horror—she _had_ enjoyed leading him to believe this was her real hair.

After wrestling with the wig for a solid fifteen minutes, her arms had begun to ache and her breath was growing labored. The more she yanked, the worse it got. A sheen of clammy sweat coated her skin. Anxiety attacks were a familiar enemy, and Belle knew the more upset she became, the harder removing the wig would be. _Calm down, Belle_. _There must be a way to get this thing off._

Wait. Hadn't she heard the hotel door open a little while ago? Belle brightened, and he racing heart began to slow. Maybe Ariel was back. As was her habit in their shared apartment in Toronto, her roommate had likely fallen asleep while watching Shark Week on television. Well, she could just wake up and help her with this idiotic wig.

Expecting to see Ariel snoozing in bed, Belle had thrown open the door, only to be treated to a horrifying eyeful of Eric Andersen's bare ass sprawled on top of Ariel. After calling it quits before Ariel had flown to France, the two were apparently making up—all over Belle's side of the bed. With a mumbled "Congratulations," she'd grappled blindly for a few articles of clothing and shut the door behind her.

There was no way in hell she was sleeping between those sheets tonight.

With the wig still partially attached to her head, Belle had skulked through the hotel hallways, sending up another prayer that God would please, please, let her make it up three floors in the elevator and down the corridor to Luc's room without anyone else on the planet seeing her. In her hurry to leave Ariel and Eric to their business, she hadn't even thought to grab her knapsack.

Shame the wig hadn't fallen off while she was walking. No, she wasn't that lucky.

Now here she was, standing in the hallway in front of his room, working up the courage to knock. Braced for another round of ridicule, she inhaled a deep breath and rapped on Luc's door, both hoping for and dreading the moment that he would open it. He answered at once.

"Belle?" Luc asked, his eyes flaring with amusement as he leaned in the doorway.

His hair was damp and he had changed out of his suit into a pair of loose sleeping pants and a red t-shirt. A bit of lean, tanned chest was exposed by the V cut of the shirt, and the urge to find out if that skin was as soft as it looked overwhelmed her. Never was she more thankful that her hands were full.

She'd gone well beyond her quota of heedless decisions for one day.

"Expecting someone else?" she asked, annoyed by the stab of jealousy in her gut.

"Non. A bit surprised to see you, though," he said. "I thought you had decided to move to Ariel's room."

"I did. I was. I am. " Belle shifted the bundle of clothes in her arms, wondering when he was going to make a crack about her hair and if she was going to have to stand in the hallway all night. "She snores."

He raised a dark eyebrow and tapped his fingers on the doorjamb.

"Ok, fine. She has an overnight guest. Her on-again, off-again boyfriend. He's a cruise ship captain and he stopped over in Cannes." _Shut up, Belle. You're rambling._ "Anyway, I really didn't want to be in the room while they suck each other's faces and…other parts of their anatomy." Her face burned as she realized her gaze had drifted to his crotch during her lengthy explanation of what she was doing here, and she snapped her eyes back up to his face. "Can I bunk with you?"

Still blocking the door, he stroked his chin. "Your hair's, uh, different again. What happened?"

"It's a wig," she confessed, looking down at her bare toes. God, when would the humiliation end?

"I can see that, cherie." He chuckled and crossed his arms over his chest. "Why is it dangling off to the side of your head?"

"Because I can't pry the stupid thing off," she said with a labored sigh. "It's stuck. Now are you going to let me in or not?"

"Mais oui," he said, throwing the door wide with a twisted smile.

"Thank you," she said, ducking under his arm and across the threshold.

"Let's see what the trouble is here," he said, probing her scalp with gentle fingers. "Ah, a few stubborn bits of hair glue."

Luc led her to the bathroom, and she stood like a mannequin on the cool tile floor as he slipped her arms into a plush robe, tied the sash, and directed her to sit on the edge of the soaking tub. "Come, I'll get it out."

Belle watched with interest as Luc rubbed a bit of softened bar soap in his hands. Where had he learned to do this? Maybe from his cousins, she thought, a smile springing to her lips. That Cruellina was a reckless one. Her amusement faded as she realized he had probably picked up this knowledge from Milah. David had said she was a stunning chameleon of a woman. Belle bit her lip to keep from crying. She knew she was being shallow and petty, fretting about another man's ex-wife—one who had walked away from him years ago. Besides, she wasn't in a relationship with Luc. She was here for Victor.

Though she had no right, she couldn't stop torturing herself about this man and his estranged son. Like with the wig, the harder she tried to untangle herself, the more involved she became.

"What are you thinking about?" Luc asked quietly.

"Nothing." Belle shook her head, trying to forget her frustration as the comforting scents of lavender and mint perfumed the warm, moist air of the bathroom. She caught her breath as Luc parted her crown of braids and began to massage the soap into her scalp where the wig was stuck. A thrill of pleasure raced up her spine, making her shiver despite the humidity in the small space. All too soon he was finished, and he wrapped her head in a towel. "There," he said. "Let's give this a few minutes."

Belle stood up and hovered in the bathroom doorway, feeling awkward and uncertain.

But Luc didn't seem at all uneasy as he walked to the sofa and patted the empty cushion beside him.

Perching gingerly on the edge of the couch, Belle tried to relax, but her stiff limbs refused to cooperate. "At least I didn't cut all my hair off, right?" she joked, fidgeting with the knot in her robe. "The original plan was to cut my hair into a bob and dye it, but when I chickened out, two of the girls at the salon talked me into this ridiculous wig."

Luc covered her hands with his and tugged gently, coaxing her to swivel toward him. "Cherie, about before? I should never have yelled at you at the club tonight. The change was…unexpected. But that's irrelevant. How you choose to look and dress is up to you. Please forgive me."

"It's ok. You were right—I tried too hard," she said.

"Non, it's not." He shook his head. "You were only trying to follow my advice. I just never imagined you would change yourself quite so much. When I said to be more provocative, I meant batt your eyelashes a bit. But you don't do anything by half-measures, do you?" He gave her a lopsided smile.

"I thought that was what men wanted." Embarrassed, Belle looked down at their joined hands.

"Not all of us, cherie," he said huskily.

"I'm sorry for treating you like you were at my beck and call, Luc. Thank you for helping me. With this." Belle pointed at her towel-covered head. "With everything."

"De rein. You're welcome," he said, releasing her hands. "Besides, you were a success with the person who mattered. Victor couldn't take his eyes off you, and Rubie did not seem to be enjoying the attention he was paying you."

"Victor, yes. Victor." Belle plastered a smile on her face.

First the beach, then the nightclub. On both occasions she had flustered Victor and annoyed his fiancée.

So why wasn't she happy? Belle tried to push the nagging feeling away. She would feel better tomorrow evening once she convinced Victor that she was the woman he wanted. Guilt tugged at her conscience as she remembered all of Rubie's adoring gazes in Victor's direction, but why should she care about that raspberry tartlet's feelings? Rubie certainly hadn't thought of Belle when she'd stolen Victor! She'd been nothing more than a nameless, faceless ninny half a world away.

"You're grinding your teeth, cherie," Luc said.

"I am?"

"Oui." The cushion dipped as Luc shifted on the couch, nudging her forward and squaring her shoulders until he was seated behind her and she was positioned between his thighs.

"What are we doing?" she asked, her heart fluttering as her back came in contact with his chest. Memories of sitting in Luc's childhood room on the bench of his spinning wheel came flooding back to her, and warmth spread throughout her body, making her fingers and toes tingle.

"Relax, cherie," he murmured in her ear, unwinding the towel wrapped around her head and dropping it to the floor. Belle curled her toes into the plush carpet as Luc's fingers began to work out the bits of softened glue. There was no pain at all, only a gentle tugging as he massaged her head and detached the wig. Humming, he then unwound the plaits in her hair, running his fingers through it as he separated and loosened the strands. Out of nowhere, Luc produced a hairbrush, then dragged it through her hair in long, slow strokes.

Belle closed her eyes and allowed her shoulders to slacken, surrendering to the sensations of not only the hairbrush, but of being cared for. When had Victor ever done something so tender and selfless for her? For long minutes, Luc brushed her hair from scalp to ends until each wavy strand was silky and smooth.

And for the first time in days, the tension she had been carrying since Victor's fateful phone call evaporated like sea mist on the evening breeze.

"They did cut two inches off my hair," she said drowsily as she nestled closer to Luc, reclining against him.

"It's lovely," he whispered, turning off the light on the side table. All at once Belle was airborne, Luc lifting her as though she weighed no more than a child. He deposited her on the bed, then tucked the covers around her. "Sleep now, and tomorrow we will practice for your evening with Victor."

"Practice," she mumbled, nuzzling the pillow.

"Oui, do you like hamburgers?" he asked.

"They're my favorite." It was the last thing she remembered saying before she drifted off to sleep.

xoxo

"This is where I will sell my necklace," Luc said, pointing at the Cartier boutique across the street from the café where they were sharing a hamburger lunch.

Belle had given her meal a distrustful sniff, worried that the establishment's sandwiches might be horsemeat disguised as ground beef, but she took an experimental nibble. The meat melted in her mouth, and the brioche bun was buttery and light. Delicious. With a shrug, she polished off an entire burger and a basket of frites.

"Your necklace?" she asked between bites, a hopeful note in her voice.

Maybe Luc would come clean and confide that the diamonds had been stolen. Then she wouldn't have to bring up Detective Nolan's visit, or the fact that he was demanding that Belle be the one to convince Luc to return it.

Belle was in the awkward position of either breaking the law or being a traitor to her friend—neither option was appealing.

"Oui, my necklace. It belonged to my grandmother. She lived in San Francisco, and when she died, she left it to me," he said, swirling and sniffing the contents of his wineglass.

"Ok, sure. Why not?" Belle said, leaning forward to steal a handful of frites from his plate. Stress eating. At the rate she was going, she'd gain 25 pounds by the time she went home.

"That will be the seed money for my vineyard," he said quietly. "Then, hopefully, my boy will come home."

Belle covered Luc's hand with hers, giving his fingers a gentle squeeze. "I'm sure he would come back to you, even without a vineyard. All you have to do is ask."

"When I cannot provide for him properly?" he asked with a scowl. "Non."

"Home is so much more than a roof over your head and money in the bank," she said. "It's about being with the people that we love. So long as you're together, it doesn't matter where you live or what the circumstances are. That's what I learned about being part of Victor's family, anyway." She looked down at her empty plate, picking at a stray crumb of brioche. "I'd be lost without him, Granny, and Ariel."

"They are your only family?" he asked.

"Basically. My relationship with my own father is a little bit like yours, unfortunately. Our only communication besides the occasional uncomfortable phone call is the unsigned birthday card he mails me once a year." She pressed her lips together. "He's never even met Victor."

"Je suis desolé—I'm sorry," Luc said.

For the tenth time that afternoon, Belle opened her mouth to tell him about David Nolan's surprise visit yesterday. The conversation was inevitable, but what was the harm in delaying a little longer? Wasn't there a way, some way, that this kindhearted man could have what he so desperately wanted and not get into trouble? Everything he was doing, he was doing for his son. Belle couldn't think of a better reason to break the law than love. "Luc," she began, an idea taking shape. "What if I sell the necklace?"

"You? Why would you want to get any more involved?" he asked. There was nothing suspicious in his words, only curiosity, and it _hurt_. Had no one ever offered to do anything for him out of the goodness of their heart?

"Because we're friends," she teased, batting her eyelashes dramatically. "And well, I am me…and you are you. If I go into Cartier…"

He nodded, warming to the suggestion. "All dressed up. Looking just so. Smiling your little smile; walking your little walk. That would be better. Thank you."

"What do you mean, my little walk?" she asked.

"The way you walk. It is like a woman, but it is also like a little girl," he said, a glint of mischief in his eyes.

"Oh." Belle blushed, not knowing whether to be flattered or insulted.

With a flourish, he dipped his fingers into the glass vase in the center of the table and presented Belle with a fragrant peach rose, the stem still dripping with cool, crystal water. "Here," he said, "if you'll have it."

Flattered, then.

"Another rose?" she asked, surprised. He'd given her one just yesterday. Belle pressed the bloom to her nose, inhaling its sweet fragrance, and smiled her thanks at Luc.

"Why not?" he asked. "You deserve beautiful things. You should have flowers every day."

Heat suffused her face at the compliment. It was more important than ever that she protect Luc, keep him from ever finding out that David Nolan was on to his scheme. In exchange for her cooperation, perhaps David could make arrangements to bring Neal home to his papa—the vineyard and Milah d'Or be damned. But she'd have to walk out of the boutique with some money, enough to convince Luc that she'd actually sold the diamonds.

Yes, she'd take the necklace into Cartier and arrange for the policeman to meet her there.

Now where was she going to come up with that kind of cash by tomorrow morning?

###

 _Up Next: Belle meets with Victor to arrange the details of the breakup, and Luc chats with Rubie._


	20. Rubie

_This chapter is dedicated to my sweet Kindleheartzyou, who suggested more insight into Rubie's character. I am so glad you did. Please enjoy._

 _And to all of you who are reading: your comments are not only a pleasure to read, they give me additional insights into my characters that I might not have considered. You are shaping the story—it's a collaboration between writer and audience and it makes me so happy!_

 _"To a common man, the opulence of the day makes no sense but to a philosopher, it is as clear as a night in southern France." – Indiana Lang_

Rubie Lupis propped one elbow up on the bed and stared at her fiancé in displeasure. They'd just enjoyed an especially gratifying round of mind-blowing sex. After donning a brand new set of skimpy lingerie, she'd coaxed Victor into bed in the middle of the day. That part had been easy. Her hope was to please him, then talk to him about tonight.

She'd succeeded with the first part of her mission, but much to her chagrin, Victor had rolled off her sex-soaked body and fallen asleep.

Rubie arched her back like a cat, rubbing her bottom against his limp body to entice him awake. But no; he smacked his lips once, then turned onto his stomach, his breathing growing deeper, more even.

Aggravated, she threw back the duvet and flounced out of bed, sending him another frustrated glare. Given his current oblivion, her fury wasn't the least bit satisfying.

How could he sleep now?

Rubie padded over to the vanity on the opposite wall, eyeing the rise and fall of Victor's chest in the mirror as he slept. Resisting the urge to chew on her freshly manicured nails, she smoothed her fingers over a raven brow and picked up her tweezers. One, two, three stray hairs floated to the surface of the table. She leaned forward, critically examining the fine web of lines making gentle grooves in the fragile skin around her eyes and mouth. At barely 30 years old, nothing was sagging yet. Still; she wasn't as young as she used to be.

Back in her twenties, she could have kept a man's attention in the bedroom for many hours before he succumbed to sleep.

But Victor wasn't like other men of Rubie's acquaintance. He was chivalrous, sweet. He didn't paw at her and slobber over her the way Frenchmen did. Over the last decade, Ruby had had a string of casual paramours. People took one look at her and figured her for a man-eater, but she wasn't the one chewing up lovers and spitting them out. No, more often than not she'd been on the receiving end of being used. It had been one bad relationship after another—until the night when everything changed.

She'd been working in Paris, waiting tables at the café around the corner from the medical conference Victor was attending. Their eyes met across the smoke-choked, crowded bistro, his smile beckoning her closer. They'd stayed up all night talking and two days later, he proposed. It was the type of whirlwind romance Rubie had only ever seen in a movie, and she could scarcely believe her good fortune.

Victor was her chance to begin again. Stable and devoted. Successful and handsome. The sort of man she never dreamed of calling her own.

Then she frowned in the mirror, remembering his face last night at the club when he'd seen Belle French leaning across a pool table, black leather stretching tight across her firm ass.

Even so, she was forced to admit that even the spark of attraction for Belle in Victor's eyes was nothing compared to the storm she'd seen in Luc d'Or's.

Belle and Luc were a strange pair if ever she'd seen one. He roguish and atypically handsome; she prim and classically beautiful. They didn't seem like each other's type at all, but that didn't matter. Rubie had a vested interest in making sure Belle stayed enamored with her new lover and far away from her old one.

Ever since Belle had arrived in Cannes, Victor had been strained and distracted. He was always craning his neck to see if she was nearby. And she was. Constantly. In the hotel breakfast room, in the lobby, at the beach. Sometimes accompanied by her mysterious lover and occasionally with Victor's sister. Picturing Ariel Whale's accusing green eyes, Rubie suppressed a shudder. The saucy redhead had made it clear from the first snub—Belle was in and Rubie was out.

Victor had evaded all her questions about his family, but it was obvious that Belle French was the darling of the tight-knit Whale clan and Rubie was the slutty homewrecker—at least where Victor's sister and grandmother were concerned. They weren't even coming to the wedding, whether out of loyalty to Belle or some other reason. Whatever the case, she was unwanted.

She traced inky black liner across her lids in shaky strokes, cursing as she poked her eyeball. Contrary to what Belle and Victor's family believed, this engagement was far from a calculated move. She had not planned to fall in love with a taken man, but it had happened. Of course, she had jumped at the chance to marry him. Victor was a catch; a doctor. The kind of man that made a mother's eyes gleam and a father's chest inflate with pride.

Oblivious to the circumstances of her sudden engagement, Rubie's own parents were giddy with excitement. Maman and Papa would be bitterly disappointed if she screwed this up. All they had ever wanted was for their only daughter to marry well.

Besides, she loved him. To the heart, time held no meaning. The idea of losing him, even after such a short courtship, made her gut clench.

Rubie glanced at the bedside table clock; Victor would be cozying up to his ex fiancée for a breakup dinner—alone—in mere hours, but he was so calm, one would think he was picking out a pair of boxer shorts. If only he would wake up and kiss away her fears; assure her that he was going to cut his ties to Belle once and for all.

Meanwhile, his soft snores sounded anything but anxious. Did they really need to be alone to discuss the division of kitchen supplies and case goods? And what the hell was she supposed to do while he stared into Belle French's huge blue eyes over a crusty baguette? Sit in the room and crochet?

A quick rap at the door startled her out of her fretful thoughts, and a lanky bellhop presented her with a crisp white envelope. Sent on the hotel stationery, it was a scribbled message from none other than Luc d'Or. He'd invited her to accompany him for drinks this evening while their sweethearts were dining together.

Rubie slipped the note into her bustier and smiled. This was an ideal development. Luc d'Or was proving to be an unusual ally. And why not? They both wanted the same thing, right? Perhaps she wouldn't have time to talk to Victor before the dinner, but this was a way to keep him in her sights without looking like a jealous bitch.

She would meet Monsieur d'Or at the hotel bar. Oui, tonight she would give Dr. Whale a taste of his own medicine.

* * *

"You want something to drink?" Luc called into the bathroom.

"Yes. Great." Belle slipped her phone and David's business card into her handbag. "I'll be out in a second."

Belle smoothed her hands over her new Dolce & Gabbana dress and dabbed a touch more lipstick into the corners of her mouth. She studied her simple décolletage, thankful for the pearl drop earrings she had worn on the flight to Paris—her one adornment. While they shopped in the hotel boutique, Ariel had dangled necklaces and bracelets in front of her face, but Belle declined the tempting baubles. Without access to her own bank account, she had taken more than enough advantage of Luc's generosity. Every cent diverted away from his vineyard would cost him dearly.

 _"Where did you and the dashing Monsieur d'Or go today?" Ariel asked when Belle stepped out of the fitting room._

 _"Don't call him that."_

 _Ariel blinked at her, the picture of innocence. "Don't call him what? Monsieur d'Or? Or dashing?"_

 _"Seriously, stop. We ran a few errands, ate lunch, walked around town. It was nothing," Belle said._

 _"Nothing?" Ariel snorted as Belle spun before the mirror, looking at herself from all angles. "You forget how well I know you, Belles. Your eyes don't sparkle like that over couture. When you talk about Luc, it's like you've found your favorite book. The one you've been hunting down and waiting to read your entire life."_

 _"That's ridiculous." Belle rolled her eyes. "You're making too much of this. I love Victor. And my face, if it does light up, lights for Victor."_

 _"For a smart girl, you can really be an idiot, Belle." Ariel handed her a pair of nude heels._

 _"Excuse me?"_

 _"You like this guy; love him, even," Ariel said. "My brother has moved on. Yeah, he was a total asshole about it, but this breakup was a gift—the best thing that could have happened. He's given you the perfect excuse to choose a new life. Don't settle for something you no longer want because of stubborn pride, or because you think that's what's expected. Reach for happiness with both hands!"_

 _"I am happy," Belle said, lifting her chin. "At least I will be. After tonight when Victor comes back to me. We'll go back to Toronto, buy the old Scarlet place, get married, and be happy. So happy."_

 _"If you think that's true, you're lying to yourself," Ariel said flatly._

 _"What?" Belle clamped her lips shut, not wanting to spew angry words at her dearest friend. She spun on her heel and stomped back into the fitting room, locking the door._

 _Ariel stood on the other side, jiggling the handle. "Fine," she taunted. "Run away."_

 _"I'm not running!" Belle hissed, slipping out of the dress and replacing it on the hanger. She was not in love with Luc. She…couldn't be. Why was Ariel trying to confuse her? Why now, when she was so close to victory?_

 _Wearing only her bra and panties, she threw open the fitting room door, ignoring the shocked look of the saleswoman. She poked Ariel in the chest with a shaking finger. "Whose side are you on, anyway?"_

 _"The side I'm always on. Yours." Ariel blew out a forceful breath, ruffling her bangs. "Look, I don't want to hurt you. You're more than my best friend; you're the sister of my heart. Which is why I can't stand by in silence and watch you make another colossal mistake. What kind of friend would I be if I didn't tell you the truth?"_

 _"You've offered quite enough 'truth' already," Belle warned, "especially for someone who just jumped into bed with her own ex—again! Will the snooty concierge from Paris be joining you soon? I hear the French love a good ménage a trois."_

 _"Ok. Yeah." Ariel had the grace to look ashamed. "I deserved that."_

 _Belle's eyes filled with tears. Ariel was only trying to help. It wasn't like Belle to be nasty, but everything was out of balance and she'd been teetering on the edge for too long. Nothing in her life had made sense since the day she boarded that airplane. "I don't want to look like a punching bag before my date," she croaked._

 _Ariel nodded. "You're right…And I need to take my own advice. Just let me say one thing more, and then I promise to shut up and support whatever you decide, ok?"_

 _"What is it?" Belle asked on a harangued sigh. Her head was beginning to pound._

 _"Belle, as long as you live in the past, you'll never find your future."_

 ** _You'll never find your future._** _Hadn't Luc said the same thing to her on the train?_

* * *

"Belle? Are you ready?" Luc called, looking at his watch. The ice cubes in the drinks he'd mixed were half-melted. "Cherie, it's almost…time." His hands slipped, and he almost dropped his drink on the carpet.

Belle stood in the doorway with her head cocked to the side, her full lower lip caught between her teeth as she fiddled with an earring. The light from the bathroom illuminated her figure and he feasted on the sight. The exquisite blue sheath dress with a scooped neckline floated just above her knees, the garment hugging her slender curves as though made for her alone. Blood rushed to his groin and his fingers itched to rove over every inch of her luscious body.

"Bought it at the store downstairs," she said glancing at the floor before meeting his eyes. The song on the stereo—'Verlaine,' he thought it was called—swelled around them, and his heart galloped in his chest.

"You look wonderful," he said, ordering his frozen feet to shuffle toward her. "Was it expensive?"

She nodded, an apologetic half-smile on her face.

"You charged it to the room?" he asked.

Another shy nod.

"Good. No problem." He handed her a drink. "I only wish my father could see you."

She squinted at him over the rim of her glass as she sipped the vodka tonic and he pinched the bridge of his nose. Perhaps it was not an ideal time to bring up the credit card he'd lifted from Malcolm's office.

"It only needs one thing." He held up the diamond necklace, the stones winking and shimmering in the buttery light. "You will wear this tonight."

Her eyes widened and she took a half-step back. "Luc, I-I don't think that's such a good idea."

"Non, non; I insist." He pivoted around her to stand at her back, draping her chestnut locks over the slope of one shoulder. The cool metal slid through his fingers and against her warm, soft skin as he fastened the clasp. "It will be your charm; your good luck charm."

She offered no more resistance and he smoothed his hands over her nearly bare shoulders, turning her around to face him with gentle hands. Did she tremble at his touch, or was it a trick of the light? "Perfect. Who is the goddesse now?" he asked, waggling his eyebrows.

She laughed, her adorable nose crinkling in pleasure.

"Come, we will practice," he said, turning up the music. "I will be Victor."

"I'll be Belle," she joked, setting down her drink.

"Bon," he said, pulling her into his arms to twirl her in a brisk dance. "We are dancing. I realize how much I need you. I am thinking I am an idiot; a fool; a chinless, mindless, stupid…."

"Ok, ok. I get the idea," she said with a frown.

He slowed the pace, clasping her right hand close to his throbbing heart as they swayed. "We are dancing," he murmured into her ear. "It feels so right. Now, what do you say to me?"

She breathed a heavy sigh. "I don't know."

"You don't?" The hopeful words slipped out before he could stop them and he winced; perhaps she had not noticed.

"I don't know anymore," she said. She rested her sharp little chin on his shoulder and he relished the tiny bite of pressure. "I don't know when to stop pretending. When do I tell him that…"

"…that you love only him?" he finished, his mouth almost grazing her brow. "You will know the moment. You will tell him and that will be that."

"You know what I am going to do for you to ensure victory?" he asked, proud of his plans. "Rubie."

"Rubie?" He couldn't see her eyes, but her small voice held a world of resignation.

"She will be feeling a little sad tonight. A little angry, a little vulnerable, perhaps. I will meet with her and offer…comfort," he said in a low, meaningful tone.

Belle stiffened and pulled back to look at him. "Well, I wouldn't want you to do anything too unpleasant."

"I do it for you," he insisted, watching a shadow of annoyance cross her face. He had no true intention of seducing Rubie, but he was a perverse bastard. If Belle was even half as mad with jealousy as he was, that would be enough to satisfy him long after she'd returned to America with her idiot fiancé.

When he was old and grey and had nothing but time and casks of wine, he would pull out memories of Belle French, one by one, and savor them like a fine Beaujolais. This woman who made him believe he could be a better man; this elegant lady who treated a thief and would-be vintner like he was worth something.

"Oui," he repeated, "I will go to her and find her and talk to her and…"

"Shhh. Shhh. Shhh. Let's just dance," she whispered.

Wordless, he drew her closer still, their bodies moving as one as they rocked together like two magnets, surrendering to the subtle pull of the music. When she pressed her temple against his cheek with a tiny, breathy moan, Luc splayed his hand across her naked upper back, closing his eyes in bliss.

For these few precious moments, this rare, extraordinary beauty was in his arms and he was determined to soak up every second. The charged atmosphere crackled, the electricity between them a tangible force. He dragged his nose away from her lavender-scented hair and tilted her chin up, forcing her to look at him, to know who she was dancing with, to recognize the man who held her. Her liquid gaze fell on his lips and she closed her eyes, drifting toward him.

He bent his head, her lush mouth a whisper away. At once, the music changed, breaking the spell with its up-tempo beat. They separated, Belle springing away with guilty haste.

"It's time to go." He inclined his head.

"Yes." She pressed her lips together, then gathered her handbag, moving to the door. She paused, her hand on the knob. "Luc?"

"Oui?"

"Good luck tonight." Without waiting for an answer, she departed and the door closed behind her, finality in the click.

"And for you, too," he whispered into the empty room.

###

 _Up Next: Belle and Victor discuss the business of breaking up._


	21. Perspective

A/N: I know it's been for-freakin'-ever since I updated this story. When last we met, we got a little more insight into Rubie, and Ariel pretty much flat out told Belle to face the fact that she's in love with Luc. Later, Belle and Luc had a little roleplay and dance to help Belle prepare for her makeup dinner with Victor which led to an electric moment. In this chapter, Belle's confused, Luc's confused…everyone is just confused.

 _"Cannes is a little bit like French wine. There are certain years that people prefer over others." – Rob Lowe_

 **Luc  
**  
He wanted to get drunk. Very drunk. Mind-numbingly, truth-denyingly drunk.

Luc glared at the mahogany-lined walls of the smoky hotel bar, wishing he could peer through the thick wood into the dining room next door. Rubie Lupis and he were sitting at a cozy corner table, she nursing a glass of champagne while he drowned his frustrations in shots of whisky. He eyed one of the other occupied tables in the center of the room with a view into the hotel restaurant, willing the patrons draped over their martinis to leave. Perhaps he might see Belle if she decided to dance with Victor as he'd advised.

Merde. He was pathetic.

Meeting Rubie for a drink while Belle settled the details of her breakup with Victor had seemed like a good way to be useful, but now he regretted proposing the scheme at all. His heart squeezed painfully in his chest—Belle was using the dinner as an excuse to bring her fiancé back into her arms for good.

He tilted his glass and stared at the amber liquid. "Bon chance, cherie," he mumbled, throwing back the drink.

"Luc?" Rubie took a dainty sip of champagne and laid a hand on his arm. "You're angry with Belle."

He snapped back to attention, forcing a smile. "Angry? Non."

"Upset then."

"Why should I be?" He shrugged. "We've known each other only a matter of days."

Rubie's eyes widened, no doubt at the implication that her own fledgling relationship was on shaky ground. He almost felt sorry for the little homewrecker.

He gulped down another glass of whisky, his fourth in fifteen minutes, and flicked his wrist in the direction of the bar for a refill.

Running a long, painted finger over a meticulously shaped raven eyebrow, Rubie preened in the mirror behind the bar. Luc bit back a disgusted snort at her obvious display of vanity.

He'd only been half-listening to the girl whine about Victor as he secretly moped over Belle, but it was time to stop wallowing and turn on the charm. Rubie was vexed with her lover. Vulnerable. Insecure. His job was to fan the flame of that anxiety. The irony was that he was the one on edge.

It was driving him insane. Belle was only a few hundred feet away, batting her huge blue eyes at that idiot Whale over a crust of baguette. He balled his hands into fists, wanting to tear into the dining room and beat the other man bloody. That bastard had flown to France, picked up a new fiancée, and broken up with Belle over the phone. Victor Whale didn't deserve Belle's devotion.

But who was he to hurl stones?

Wearing an exaggerated moue, Rubie droned on. Luc pasted a polite smile on his face, trying to disguise his annoyance. She was beautiful, there was no denying it, but she was also lacking. There was an emptiness inside her, a soullessness that he recognized all too well. In fact, she was exactly the type of floozy he'd grown accustomed to dating before he'd sworn off women for good. Pouty, pretty, and selfish as hell. Deep grooves of insecurity circled her green eyes. Suddenly he realized what made her so familiar—she was Milah all over again.

"I don't understand how Victor could do this to me." Rubie covered the back of his hand with her cool fingers and he shuddered involuntarily. "This never would have happened to me when I was younger. He would be upstairs with me, in my bed, and she would wait all night."

"Oui, j'imagine." He nodded sympathetically.

"What's wrong with me?" she asked, her eyes big and beseeching.

"Nothing. He's a waste of your time," he said on cue.

"No, you're wrong about that. He's wonderful. Tender and sweet." She smiled, her eyes glazing over with a far-off look, then flipped her gaze in the direction of the dining room. "What do you think they're doing over there?"

"Who cares?" he asked, tossing back another drink.

"I care, and I think we should we find out."

She stood up and he caught her arm, easing her back into the chair. "No, no, no; you don't want to do that." Luc couldn't bear to see Belle smiling into Victor's small, cold eyes. _Mon dieu_! He couldn't stop himself from thinking of her. Her softness, the fragrance of her skin, how she swayed in his arms like a sapling, strong yet pliable, yielding to his lead but always standing her own ground.

He snuck a glance at Rubie's worried expression. Perhaps she really did love Victor. A nagging sense of guilt overcame him, but he quashed it like a bug. What difference did it make what she wanted? Neither of them had considered Belle's feelings when they'd broken her heart.

He had promised Belle that he would do anything in his power to help her win back Victor. He owed her everything. She could have turned him over to the police for smuggling; she'd had ample opportunity. Instead, she'd helped him to get his vine so he could return to the countryside, buy his land, and make a great wine. Perhaps then, when he was worth something, he could find his way back to his boy.

As for Belle, her destiny was far away from the likes of him.

When she'd been dancing in his arms upstairs, the glow of a Mediterranean sunset reflected in her eyes, he had almost kissed those lush, rosebud lips. He'd nearly fallen to his knees and begged her to break it off with the spineless doctor for good, almost thrown her down on the nearby bed and made love to her until she'd screamed with such pleasure that she couldn't remember the name Victor Whale. But now wasn't the time to slake his lust and his ego. Belle had come so far to win back her fiancé. She wanted to marry Victor, longed for the security of a home and family. The right thing to do was to help her find happiness.

He could offer Belle no more than a passing dalliance that would end in certain heartbreak. Besides, his focus needed to be on his vineyard and his son.

Tonight, though, he would settle for getting drunk.

 **Victor**

Victor swallowed hard and loosened his tie, shifting in his chair. As an emergency room physician, he typically didn't cave under pressure. But that was Doctor Whale, the professional. Cool, collected, measuredly compassionate. His personal life was another matter entirely.

He had been so nervous about the prospects of this dinner, the scene Belle might make, that he'd taken a sleeping pill this afternoon and passed out in the hotel room. Rubie was irritated with him when he woke up and rushed out the door—he was running late for dinner. Soothing her would have to wait until after he settled things with Belle.

Belle. They hadn't been alone together since his drunken breakup call, and that didn't technically count since he'd ended their engagement from 6,000 kilometers away. When they'd sat down at the cozy bistro table, he'd hardened his jaw, expecting her to wheedle and coerce him to come home. He'd been fully prepared to fake a medical emergency. Instead he found himself wanting to linger, to prolong their last meal together.

She shone in a blue dress with her hair swept off her neck, her collarbone glowing with diamonds. This sparkling, ethereal creature wasn't his Belle. The Belle French he knew was reliable, dependable, practical. And safe.

Belle was, well…Belle. A woman he once loved. Or loves? He wasn't sure what to feel anymore.

This vibrant, glorious version of her was completely disinterested in him, and he didn't know what to think. Since she'd come to Cannes, she'd changed her style, her hair, everything. She was light, carefree, and happy.

Victor swallowed past the lump of regret lodged in his throat, trying to get her to meet his gaze. Did she have d'Or to thank for the sparkle in her eyes? He wished she would look at him, but she was studiously checking their belongings off on a laundry list of items. Always the librarian—prim and organized. At least that hadn't changed.

"You'll keep the bonsai. The lamp we bought in New York is mine. The books will be tough, though. Why don't you just let me keep the books?" she asked, checking another box.

"Whatever you want," he said. She could have everything, for all he cared. Dividing the details of their life into columns labeled 'His' and 'Hers' felt mercenary, and he started to sweat.

"Victor, are you all right?" She looked up from her list, her eyes narrowed. "Your eye is twitching."

"Can we not talk about this? It's so depressing."

"Well, it's business." She propped her elbows on the table and chewed on the end of her pen. "This is the business of breaking up. You know, if you can't handle it, I can have a yard sale and wire you half the cash."

"You must hate me." He picked up a crust of bread, crumbling it in his fingers.

"No, I don't." She looked down at her checklist again.

"You don't hate me?" he pressed.

"Well, I did, Victor, but now…no." She smiled brightly.

He stiffened at the reminder. Now she had d'Or to help her forget.

"Belle…"

"What?"

"Nothing. I don't know." He sighed. "I just feel so guilty."

"Don't feel guilty." She set down the clipboard, pinning him with earnest blue eyes. "Because then I'll feel guilty that I made you feel guilty. And…" She stopped midsentence, shaking her head. "No, you know what? That was the old Belle. Go ahead and feel guilty. Swim in it, till your fingers get all wrinkly."

He chuckled. "You're amazing. You really are." His focus shifted to the dance floor where couples were swaying to "Dream a Little Dream of Me."

 _Say "nighty night" and kiss me,  
Just hold me tight and tell me you'll miss me,  
While I'm alone and blue as can be,  
Dream a little dream of me._

Had she been missing him and dreaming of their life together, as the song suggested? If they were home in Toronto, they would order her favorite pizza with no cheese and spoon on the sofa, watching _Seinfeld_ reruns until they fell asleep. They weren't, though. They were here, in France - together, the way they should have been all along. Of course that was what Belle wanted. Why else was she here?

"I know you're with Luc now, but what do you say to one last dance? For old times' sake." Reaching across the table, he grabbed her hand and squeezed it. "Come on."

 **Rubie**

Rubie studied her companion openly, drawing her gaze down the long, tanned column of his throat. He was a handsome one, she thought, this Luc d'Or. Dark and charming, with a hint of sophistication. But he was a Frenchman, and that spelled trouble. All her worst relationships had been with other French guys. Still, she wouldn't mind if he kissed her, or took her to bed.

Rubie tossed her head. Belle was probably digging her claws back into Victor as they spoke, and he, weak-willed man that he was, would allow it. Men were fragile, egotistical creatures.

"Tell me more about Belle. Are you two very happy together?" she prompted, trying not to sound too eager.

"Eh, we have a good time, you know." His long fingers mimicked the motions of intercourse.

Rubie frowned. She hadn't expected the little bookworm to be good at sex. "Sexual compatibility is important."

"Oui."

Rubie pressed her lips together, wishing Luc would be more forthcoming. She wanted to question him about Victor's love life with Belle, but she didn't want to look like a fool or to appear threatened. No, asking too much would be giving away too much. She busied herself with watching her engagement ring sparkle and reflect in the mirror as she waited for him to say something, _anything_.

In the glass, she saw a table with a view to the dining room open, and rose. "Let's sit over there. The lighting is better," she lied.

Luc shrugged again and moved to follow her. "As you wish."

She made a show of crossing her legs as they settled at the new table with fresh drinks.

"Victor was obviously looking for something…more," she observed, testing the waters. "Something Belle couldn't give him, maybe?"

Luc rolled his eyes and blew out a loud breath.

"What? Have I offended you?" she asked wryly.

He barked a laugh, startling her. "Non. Je ne comprends pas. Help me understand. Why would a woman like you want him?" His gaze was appreciative as his eyes ran up and down her curves, warming her body and soothing the sting of Victor's rejection. "You could have any man you set your sights on."

"Do you think so?" she asked, giving him her best flirtatious smile.

"Plein de poisson, n'est pas?"

She laughed, delighted by Luc's dry humor. Victor was never funny.

"Oui, many fish in the sea." She shifted her chair closer, then put her hand on his knee, tapping lightly with her nails.

Luc downed another drink, his bleary eyes focused on the entrance to the dining room.

Ruby followed his sight line until she spied Victor, speaking animatedly with his former paramour. The smile he gave her was tender and loving, and their hands lay entwined in the center of the table, fingers laced together for all to see.

Jealousy reared up, biter and ugly. Fine. If he could forget about her, she could forget about him. At least for a while. It was time to up the stakes.

"You invited me here tonight, Monsieur. And now that you have me here," she squeezed his firm thigh, "what are you going to do with me?"

"I think you know," he said, his eyes burning.

Whether it was lust or anger fueling that fire, she didn't know and didn't care. She licked her lips in invitation. "Why don't we go upstairs to my room?"

 **Belle**

"Belle? Belle, look at me," Victor said.

She studied the clipboard she'd borrowed from the hotel desk. She didn't want to look at him; she wanted to keep checking off boxes. She just had to plow through this meeting and this list without overthinking.

Displaying a bravado she didn't feel, she asked, "What do you think about the couch? Would it be madness to take a chainsaw and cut down the middle to make two, huge, overstuffed chairs?"

"Belle, seriously, enough with the division of property. Dance with me." He rose and held out a hand, that boyish glint she'd always loved in his eyes.

Her stomach flipped over and she twisted her fingers in her napkin. This was the moment she'd been building toward for days—ever since she'd boarded that airplane. Now that it was here, and Victor was looking at her the way he used to, everything felt…strange. Pushing aside her doubts, she plastered a sunny smile on her face and accepted his hand. "Why not?"

They strolled to the dance floor like they had countless times before. On autopilot, she stepped into his arms and moved with him to the music the way they always did. Dancing with a familiar partner was like riding a bicycle around your block. Safe, comfortable, and one never forgot how.

He drew her closer, splaying a hand across her bare back. His voice husky, he murmured in her ear. "You seem so different. But the same. Like someone turned a light on inside you. Why wasn't it me?"

Tears stung her eyes and she wrapped her arms around his neck. She was overwhelmed by the events of the past several days, and being in his arms was making her weepy. Yes, that had to be it.

The arm around her back pressed tighter, and he led her out to a quiet terrace that overlooked the sea.

"Belle, don't cry. I'm sorry for everything. If only I'd brought you with me—insisted on you being in Paris by my side—none of this would have happened," he crooned.

When he moved his lips over hers, she acquiesced. The kiss was friendly yet awkward, like meeting an old friend she'd lost touch with—ill-fitting, but after so many years invested, it seemed a waste to let it all go.

Now wasn't the time to back away, not when victory was so close.

She closed her eyes tighter and kissed him again. But it was no use. She stepped back, breaking the kiss, and crossed her arms over her chest.

"None of this would have happened?" she echoed. "What do you mean by that?"

Victor looked at her, surprised confusion written across his once-dear features.

"Why wasn't it you who turned on the light?" Belle asked in an angry whisper, choking on tears. "The bright shining Belle light that burns so bright now that you can't resist dumping your new girlfriend for your old one!"

Belle studied him, waiting for a response. Sometime in the past few days, she had stopped fantasizing about Victor's cool blue eyes and his straight, perfect nose. His image had melted away, replaced by shaggy brown hair, sardonic chocolate eyes, and an adorably crooked nose. Luc. He filled her thoughts, fueled her dreams. Nothing about the man standing in front of her was anything she wanted anymore.

"What are you talking about?" he sputtered. Didn't you come here for me?"

She snorted. "Yesterday, all you wanted was Rubie."

"Rubie is wonderful; exciting. And when I met her, I wasn't thinking. Sometimes you don't think. You just do what you're feeling."

"Go on."

"Maybe I was afraid of where we were headed. I was afraid of getting married," he explained, moving in for another kiss.

"Bullshit." Belle ducked away.

"Bullshit?"

"That's right, bullshit. You weren't afraid of getting married to her!" Belle took a deep breath. "I shouldn't have to chase you halfway around the world to make sure this 'wouldn't have happened'! Looking over your shoulder to make sure you're not flinging up the skirts of every tart that happens by!

"You know, no matter what I might seem like tonight, it's still the same old me from yesterday that you wake up with tomorrow. The same old me, who wants a home and a family, who wants to plant some seeds and see them grow."

"Like a garden?"

She glared at him, then softened. A lot of aspects of this situation were Victor's fault, but her blindness wasn't one of them. "No…yes." She wanted Luc. A life with him, his son. Whatever that looked like, whether it was a flat in Paris or a vineyard in Provence, she wanted to be with him.

"There's just one thing I don't want anymore," she said.

"Me."

"It's over, Victor. I'm sorry." She stepped out of his reach. "We walked the same path once, but somewhere along the way, we started wanting different lives."

"I know," he said, his nod sheepish. "You're right." He shoved his hands in his pockets.

"Goodbye, Victor. I hope you and Rubie will be happy together." The farewell smile she offered was wistful, but she wasn't sad. The only emotion she felt regarding Victor was relief. That, and a newfound confidence that she was making the right decision.

What a fool she had been. Victor, and the life she thought she wanted, was the whole reason she had forced herself to get on that plane. Pride had gotten in the way. She'd been so hell-bent on not losing him to another woman that she'd missed the fact that she'd fallen in love with another man. Now she realized the truth: while she had been chasing her past, fate had stepped in and guided her toward her future.

She only hoped it wasn't too late to tell Luc that she loved him.

Belle hurried out of the dining room, weaving through the tables, desperate to get back to the scene of his rendezvous with Rubie. A few patrons dotted the bar, but Luc and Rubie were not among them. She scoured the lobby and the annexes, but Luc was nowhere to be found.

Had they left together?

Dread churned in her gut. All of her planning, scheming, and stubborn determination to win Victor back may have sent her true love catapulting into another woman's arms.

Dashing tears from her eyes, she hurried back to the room she was sharing with Luc, but it, too, was cold and vacant. She thought about seeking out Ariel for comfort, but she couldn't bear to hear any more I-told-you-sos.

Collapsing on the bed, she stared at the ceiling, waiting for Luc's return, until she fell into an exhausted, fitful sleep.

###

 _Up Next: The morning after, and Belle and Victor head to Cartier to sell the diamonds._


End file.
